


Blue Skies From Pain

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Healing, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Pining, Self-Discovery, Slow Build, Temporarily Unrequited Love, honestly? harry can't stop being angsty about 2015 rip harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: “Hello?” The voice says, and Harry can’t really talk at all. But he has to – he’s on national radio.“Zayn,” he says, “It’s Harry.” Though it should be obvious. Unless Zayn deleted Harry’s number, which–There’s a long pause where Nick is staring wide-eyed at him, and all Harry can do is look down at his phone plugged into the soundboard with the words ‘Zayn Malik’ on the screen, the seconds ticking on.Or, Harry plays Call or Delete. Begins March 2017.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how I got into Zarry. I don't even know who to blame. All I do know is that there are almost no fix-it fics. So that's what this is.
> 
> I wouldn't recommend reading this if you think Harry is an angel. I fully plan to make both he and Zayn equally responsible for the mess that is their relationship in this fic.
> 
> Title taken from the Pink Floyd song _Wish You Were Here_.

**March to April, 2017**

 

It starts off like any other day on his promo circuit.

“Aww, come on, Harry! Give us a laugh!” Nick teases him, grin bright and blinding. Harry can’t help but grin back, shaking his head – though it’s not like anyone can see him. They’re not filming this segment, not like they did the interview before. Hadn’t really planned this one, really, but Nick’s sort of putting him on the spot and they’d transferred that to the actual recording. 

“Alrigh’,” Harry grumbles good-naturedly, shaking his head still, “But I just want to say I apologise to anyone I delete.”

“You can’t do that,” Nick scolds him, fond, “Harry Styles, you can’t apologise for this – if you truly were sorry, you’d just call, wouldn’t you? Not sorry, you.”

“Shh,” Harry tries, grinning, plugging his phone in with the cord Nick passes him.

It’s alright, at first. Harry deletes a few people he hasn’t spoken to in years, calls up Robin and tells him he’s thinking of growing a mullet – he’s truly never hearing the end of it, Nick’s squawk of laughter still ringing in his ears at Robin’s blasé “Haven’t you already done that?” – and he rings through to a florist he’s used a few times and orders his mum some flowers. Nick rolls his eyes the whole time, and Harry knows he’ll never live this down, either – in fact, _The Sun_ ’ll probably write an article on Harry’s mysterious new girlfriend ‘Anne’, at this rate. But it’s been a while since Harry let himself read those kinds of things – even longer since he let them affect him. 

It’s the last number – though not the ‘last one’, at first – that leaves him stuck.

“Who’s that, then?” Nick prods him, eyes on Harry’s frozen fingers, microphone at his mouth, “Who’s got you all tongue-tied, Styles?”

“Err,” Harry starts, wondering how the fuck he’s going to get out of this one. There’s no way out that doesn’t make him look bad; even cutting this bit out of the segment will make things sound disjointed and obviously edited. _Fuck._ “It’s an old friend.”

“Juicy,” Nick comments, waggling his eyebrows at Harry from behind his mic. Harry tries not to think of how incredibly juicy it really is, Nick having no bloody idea. “Have at it.” He nods, as if giving Harry permission to press ‘call’.

Harry’s frozen fingers somehow work, at least enough to tap on the green button and await what’s sure to be the most awkward moment of his life, maybe bar that time he misspoke in Italian and said ‘anus’ on national television... but even then, that was funny. This is anything but funny.

The rings stop, and they’re clicked on. There’s a rustle, and then Harry’s trying not to flinch.

“Hello?” The voice says, and Harry can’t really talk at all. But he has to – he’s on national radio.

“Zayn,” he says, “It’s Harry.” Though it should be obvious. Unless Zayn deleted Harry’s number, which–

There’s a long pause where Nick is staring wide-eyed at him, and all Harry can do is look down at his phone plugged into the soundboard with the words ‘Zayn Malik’ on the screen, the seconds ticking on. 

The call is dead silent, but there’s no dial tone. Zayn’s still on, and Nick looks to be about ready to burst, and Harry has to say _something,_ surely – something to start a conversation they can continue later, in private, when not the whole of England is listening.

He opens his mouth, ready to spit out _what,_ he doesn’t know, when there’s the click and that dial tone.

“Right,” Nick hurries to say, chuckling – and it’s only Harry being there in person that allows him to witness the pure panic on Nick’s face, “Bloody awkward, that. Let’s have a song, shall we?”

He approaches him once they’ve done the sign off. 

“We don’t have to air that, Harry,” Nick tells him, and his eyes are searching Harry’s face for something that obviously isn’t there if the way he bites his bottom lip is anything to go by, “We can just forget that whole thing, if you like.”

Harry tries not to let his emotions play over his face, and replies slowly, “It’s fine.”

“Harry–”

“It’s not like people would’ve expected different, yeah?” Harry goes on, his mouth getting ahead of him as he struggles to figure out exactly what he’s trying to say. “Everyone knows we don’t get on. It’s fine,” he insists again as Nick opens his mouth, frown on his face, “Don’t worry about it, Nick.”

It’s _not_ fine, is the thing.

The next week is spent as usual – he records a few phone interviews, has a couple of meetings with his label about fonts or whatever it is they want to ask regarding his chosen aesthetic, sees some of his friends whilst he’s in London, and then hits the gym when he can, avoiding cameras and young women’s eyes to the best of his ability.

He does anything but think about it, which is precisely why when he hears the bloody recording again on that Friday, he feels like he’s been hit by a freight train – swept up in its course, entrails spread out on the tracks for all and sundry to see.

 _“Zayn,”_ he hears himself say, and he sounds remarkably calm even though he knows exactly the kind of blind panic that was coursing through his veins in that moment, _“It’s Harry.”_

The silence is even more deafening the second time.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Harry mutters to himself in real time, numbly sitting down at his kitchen island and wondering how the fuck he’s going to field this in interviews from now on.

“Sorry about that, Harry Styles,” Nick apologises through Harry’s surround sound speakers after new Ellie Goulding ends, “Seems like maybe you should delete that one.”

Harry’s laugh sounds too dry even now, old and jaded. 

“Thanks for havin’ me,” he’s said, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief at the fact that no one can say he didn’t swerve right out of that one. He’s not ready for the fans to attack him over this – not when the wound’s opened right back up, stitches and scarring disappeared like it’s been no time at all since March 2015, no time at all since Zayn left Harry in that hotel room.

 _Left the_ band, _you mean,_ he tells himself, frowning as he sips at his juice, _There was nothing to leave between the two of you._

He ignores any feeling that comes with that thought; pushes it away into the deep recesses of his mind where Zayn Malik has been for the past two years. It’s fine.

Harry’s fine.

 

***

 

“It’s got to be first,” Harry insists, “and _Dining Table_ needs to be the last song. I don’t really care about the order so much after that. Well,” He adds, humming, “I care, but you get me, yeah?”

“I just think it’s not the kind of album opener we want,” Jeff’s voice sounds tinny through the phone, “It’s kind of...”

“Sad?” Harry finishes, tone light, “Yeah, I know. But it’s got to be first.”

There’s a pause, like Jeff is trying to figure out exactly how serious Harry is.

“I’ll let you keep the duck sound if you put it first.” Harry relents, and Jeff whoops in triumph before agreeing, Harry’s stomach hurting with laughter.

He clicks off after another five minutes, lungs feeling red and raw in the empty living room of his L.A. flat. It’s a sunny day outside, summer truly emerging from hiding, but all Harry wants to do is bury under his covers for the day, _Notting Hill_ on repeat.

He’s an adult, though, with a job that requires him to do things other than hide away.

He spends the rest of the week phoning in to radio stations, or attending radio interviews to promote the single. It feels like such a relief to be able to talk about it, but having to evade certain questions about its origins becomes tiring after the first few times, and that initial excitement turns into what promo always does – boring, repetitive, and surprisingly tiring.

On the eleventh his Twitter gets hacked, and he sends Louis the text he sends every time something like this happens – which isn’t often these days, but Harry’s been leaving his social media to interns a lot more and it seems to be a by-product of that.

 _My love,_ his text reads, _I miss you so much._

 _Fuck off styles honestly_ is Louis’ reply, and Harry smirks down at his phone. _When are you going to come round ? Nialler is a better mate than you at this rate . He’s over right now_

_See you soon, then, my sugarplum xx_

Louis just sends back the middle finger emoji.

“Always so eloquent.” Harry murmurs to himself with a smile, pocketing his phone.

“My sun and stars!” he exclaims when he walks into Louis’ place, arms open and grin on his face. His Hawaiian shirt probably makes the gesture even more comical, as Niall snorts unattractively.

“Will you stop?” Louis snaps, “You’re a disgrace.”

“Hey,” Harry drawls, frowning, moving further toward the kitchen, “That’s no way to greet the love of your life.”

“This is brilliant,” Niall laughs, taking a mouthful of his lunch.

“You ate without me?” Harry sighs. “I hope your fridge is stocked.”

“You’re not the love of my life,” Louis grumbles, pushing his food about his plate like he’s had a bad day. Harry raises his eyebrows.

“I am and you know it,” He declares, coming over to hug Louis tightly, “You may find someone lovely to replace me one day, but right now we’re completely and utterly platonically in love, and I won’t hear otherwise.”

He pulls away to peruse the fridge, eyes lighting up at the leftover sausages there, seemingly cooked that day given their relative warmth in the fridge. Putting them on a plate and shoving them in the microwave, he turns around to see Niall’s eyebrows raised at Louis, his beer half-finished in hand.

“What did I walk in on?” Harry jokes, but his smile fades as he takes a closer look at Louis’ uncomfortable expression. “Lou, what’s the matter?” 

“It’s _nothing,_ ” Louis stresses, glaring at Niall who rolls his eyes, taking a swig, “Neil just wants to gossip.”

“Oi, fuck off,” Niall exclaims, smiling, “Come on, don’t leave ‘im out.”

Louis sighs, as if put upon, and continues to unenthusiastically move his food around his plate. “S’nothing, alright? Just... Freddie’s gettin’ big and I haven’t seen him much.” 

The microwave goes off, and Harry pulls out his bangers and places them on the island to join his friends. He grabs the salad from the fridge and tips the container onto his plate, ignoring Niall’s amused expression. 

“Go and see him, then,” Harry advises, grabbing some cutlery from a drawer before cutting into his meal, “You’ve got the money, and the time.”

“I can’t exactly just turn up,” snaps Louis, glaring at Harry, “Brianna doesn’t want anything to do with me. Or,” Louis concedes, face turning unpleasant, “I suppose she’s happy to take my money, at any rate.”

“That’s for Freddie, though,” Niall points out, “She can’t take it for herself. It’s alright, Lou.”

Harry looks between them and knows there’s something Louis isn’t exactly saying, but Harry’s not entirely sure how to approach it. His heart twinges uncomfortably at the thought – because this is unfamiliar, almost.

He needs to see them more. Louis, especially. He almost misses being attached at the hip to him, knowing and not exactly caring that people thought they were in love. He might’ve liked the idea of it – kissing Louis, going on secret dates with Louis, being in love with Louis; but it was only ever an idea. It’s not like being in love with him would’ve been easy, but he thinks they might’ve been able to make a solid go of it.

But that’s what he’d thought about... well, he’s thought it before. Doesn’t mean much, does it? Harry’s not a prophet, can’t predict the future. From his experience, it seems he’s a poor judge of character when it comes to romance. Can’t seem to pick them for the long term, can he?

The conversation makes him reflect on where Louis is now, and he realises that maybe he’s not the only one making these poor choices. He thinks to make a joke about it, about how they can’t seem to find the right people and maybe they’d be better off making Larry a reality; but the sour turn to Louis’ mouth stops him, and he tries to think of a reasonable, comforting reply instead.

It comes to him suddenly, a way for them to spend more time together and solve the problem simultaneously.

“We can go together,” Harry suggests, perking up with every second the idea settles into his mind, “I love babies, you know that. It’ll make it easier if I’m there, won’t it?”

“Yeah,” Louis mumbles, frowning at his plate again, only to shoot Niall a glance. Harry frowns, looking between the two of them.

“What?” He prods, trying to parse what that look meant and why Louis is rubbing tiredly over his face, Niall chewing at the corner of his mouth absently, “What is it, what did I say?”

“Haz, look,” Niall begins, leaning forward on his forearms as if to get stuck into a long-winded discussion, “Sometimes you just, like, get a bit caught up.” 

A flash of something stirs in Harry’s chest, strange and unwanted and unidentifiable, “Alright...” He trails off, hoping one of them will expand upon that statement.

“It’s like sometimes you forget that you promise these things,” Niall explains, and Harry’s frown deepens, his forehead scrunching up achingly. “We know you don’t mean to, that it just sort of happens, but we’ve learnt over the years not to get our hopes up, ya know? It’s not personal, mate.”

Harry looks between them again – Louis’ downturned eyes and Niall’s open face – and sighs.

“I’m sorry–”

“You don’t need to apologise, you twat,” Louis interrupts, “We just fucking said it’s fine.”

“It doesn’t feel fine.” Harry tries to argue, but the heat’s not there – he knows, sometimes, he can be a bit forgetful. Just in that absent way, where he doesn’t think to follow up on promises like he just made. It’s not intentional – the lads are right – but maybe he should try harder.

Maybe he needs to try harder at a lot of things.

“Forget we said anythin’,” Louis rolls his eyes, grabbing their three plates and cutlery to put in the dishwasher, “It’s not a big deal. S’not what we’re here to cuss you out for, either.”

Harry raises his brows in askance, and Louis pinches a nipple as he goes past, Harry’s hands coming up on instinct. 

“First time we hear your sodding single is on the radio, what’s that about?” Louis asks, leading them into the living area and landing heavily onto his couch, Xbox menu idle on his telly. “Nialler sent us his weeks before.”

Harry cringes whilst Niall pats him on the back consolingly as they sit, like he understands. 

“Sorry,” Harry apologises, trying not to wince again at the thought that he seems to keep apologising, “It was a bit of a whirlwind, wasn’t even in the country when we were writing it. Sort of slipped by me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis waves his hand, letting it go even if the way his mouth twitches lets Harry’s know that he’ll be hearing more about this at a later date. “What’s with that, anyway? Jamaican getaway to write a whole album? Don’t recall you needing that before.”

He truly doesn’t want to answer that, but they’ve put up with enough already and it’s about time Harry actually shared something of worth with them before the rest of the world brings it up. Not like they’d have heard BBC Radio 1 Breakfast – but they probably deserve answers. It’s harder to say it out loud, though. Not when he hasn’t for years – maybe even ever, if he thinks about admitting the real truth of it all.

“Yeah, well,” Harry chuckles, though there’s no amusement there, “Needed a break.”

“As if we didn’t just go on hiatus,” Niall says, laughing, “He needed a break, he says.”

“Piss off,” laughs Harry, shaking his head as he fiddles with his rings, around and around and around and trying not to think of all the ways they matter. The blanket falling over the back of the couch feels itchy on his neck as he leans back, eyes searching the ceiling for anything interesting, “S’not that I’m not grateful, but I was going out of my head a bit.”

He’s greeted with silence, and he imagines Louis throwing Niall that look again, though maybe with an added quirked eyebrow. He lifts his head up to see, but Louis has his eyes closed with his head against the armrest of the perpendicular sofa, and Niall is resting his temple on a palm, gazing at Harry curiously.

He takes a deep breath, and he dives.

“Did either of you hear... ?”

“What, Radio 1 Breakfast?” Louis prods when Harry trails off, opening his eyes to stare at Harry piercingly across the corner of the coffee table, which is littered with stained rings of forgotten teas, “Bit hard not to, with the way my Twitter blew up.”

“Right,” Harry agrees weakly, suddenly weary and tired down to his bones.

“Can’t believe you didn’t delete him,” mutters Louis, and this is the last thing Harry wants – to talk about Zayn like he’s no one to them; like he’s a stranger, or a long-forgotten acquaintance. Zayn might be in their past but he _meant_ something, and he meant it for long enough that Harry has no choice but to keep him there, a set of numbers programmed into his mobile. It’s not fair to any of them – if Harry lets Zayn disappear from his phone then those first four years of One Direction are unfinished, like someone’s decided to forgo that last layer of paint on an artwork. And Harry’s always maintained, through all the crap that’s gone on – throughout all the best times, even – that the band was the most important. He’s not going to throw part of that away because someone didn’t think the same.

“How is he?” Niall asks, breaking the silence comfortably. His glasses rest on his nose, and Harry wishes to take them off, place them on his own face, and do something silly like quote _Harry Potter_ , or pretend to be _Indiana Jones._ Anything but this conversation.

“I don’t really know.” Harry admits, and Niall’s brown hair seems softer even if his frown makes his face hard, confused.

“What?” Niall laughs, a little incredulous, “You didn’t ring him after?”

“No,” Harry admits after a pause. He brings right thumb and forefinger up to tug at his bottom lip, feeling the sting as they’re a little chapped whilst they adapt to slightly warmer weather. “Was I supposed to?”

“You’re not supposed to do anything,” Louis snaps, and Harry swings his head around to him, feeling the phantom brush of his old hair against his neck, “He bloody well left the band, you’re not supposed to ring him up.”

“Lou,” Niall starts, and Harry senses an ages-old argument – it feels unsettling, that he doesn’t know exactly how it plays out. A deep-rooted resistance comes over him, and suddenly he’s longing for that blue polka-dotted tablecloth, for Lux’s excited baby babble as they prep for a show, and for those mornings when Zayn pushed his cold nose into Harry’s shoulder–

“–deserve it. I’m sick of feeling guilty for something none of us did. This is all on him.”

“Louis, don’t be an insensitive fuck, alright? I don’t agree with the way he left things, but can’t you see how much healthier he is now? How much happier?”

“Why should he be happier?” Harry snaps, the look of Zayn’s sleepy, fluttering eyelashes fading from recent memory, “He left us, Ni.”

“Exactly!” Louis crows, lifting his arms up and dropping them in exasperation. “He fucking left the four of us high and dry to finish a tour we never signed up for. We were never meant to be _four._ ”

It’s something Liam used to tell them time and time again in the early days, especially when Niall and Louis found themselves on the short end of solos.

_“We were never meant to be three,” He’d say to Louis, tone hard and unforgiving as he grew more confident, “So shut up about it, alright? Let me talk to them.”_

Liam hadn’t known that was the wrong thing to say to Louis, of all people – but Harry had appreciated his show of friendship, had felt warmed by it at the time. Now the sentiment just feels over-used, stretched thin. If they were never meant to be anything but five, then why did Zayn leave?

“He was sick,” Niall pushes, eyes going hard, “I didn’t see it at the time but I realise it now.”

“None of us were the paradigm of good health, Nialler,” Louis waves an absent hand, “None of the rest of us left.”

“That’s different,” Niall says, though it’s quiet and sad, “You know that.”

“Do I?” Louis asks coldly, but it’s not a question. Harry tries not to flinch, feeling the guilt seep in. He should’ve known – of everyone, he should’ve been there for Zayn, to counsel him through it.

Instead he was blindsided and left to explain it to everyone. Harry’s not sure who’s wrong anymore, even if he can’t help but let his angry thoughts out in front of Louis – Louis, who’s still angry even two years later, who still hasn’t simmered down about it.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” Harry admits, feeling like it’s better to get it out in the open before he can chicken out, before he has time to trick himself into forgetting again, “Ever since the show, I keep replaying everything over and over in my head.”

“That’s why you should’ve deleted his sodding number, Harry,” Louis mutters, “Nothing good is going to come of this, yeah? How in fucking hell is any of this going to get solved when Zayn hangs up on us, won’t bother to reply to texts – don’t lie to me, Niall, I know you’ve tried. He bloody well only speaks to Liam, doesn’t he?” Louis scowls, and his pointed face turns ugly as he sneers angrily, “Maybe the rumours were true, hey, lads?”

“ _Stop,_ ” orders Harry, glaring at Louis, his heart clenching, “Just stop it.” 

“That’s out of line, Lou.” Niall murmurs. Harry might’ve never said, but Niall knows what went on – the things Harry and Louis went through in the name of rumours.

“Sorry,” Louis mutters regretfully, “I just– I’m still so pissed off. It won’t fucking go away.”

Harry’s chest gives a painful squeeze in consolation. Harry might not be angry like Louis – consumed by it at the very mention of Zayn’s name – but the feelings definitely haven’t disappeared like he’d hoped for that night two years ago, Zayn’s name unable to pass his lips as he sat in the corner of the bathroom; Niall crouched in front of him, pale-faced and worried. They swirl in his chest, now that he’s heard Zayn’s voice again. One word and Harry’s fallen right down the rabbit hole once more, thinking about him constantly, wondering what he’s doing, how he feels, whether he’s as in love with Harry and Harry is with him.

 _Shut up,_ he tells himself fiercely as the other two move onto different conversation, something lighter. Harry thinks it might be football.

He tries to engage the rest of the afternoon, but his friends seem to sense he’s been put off, letting him sit mostly in silence, Harry giving the occasional piece of commentary but mostly trying not to think at all.

Louis sees him to the door after Niall leaves, and he pulls him in for a hug, sliding his hands down to rest on Harry’s arse.

“Don’t be too down, baby,” He says, and Harry might’ve laughed if he felt up to it. As it is, he just gives a bit of a watery smile. “These things take time.”

“It’s been two years.” Harry reminds him, and Louis just puts a hand on Harry’s cheek and gives it a soft slap.

“It was just a phone call,” He says, in complete contradiction to his earlier words – maybe he _has_ calmed down, Harry thinks; it’s not fair, is it? Because Harry’s still stuck back in 2015. “You’ll be right.”

 _I’ll be right,_ Harry repeats to himself as he pulls up to his house, the expanse of his kitchen feeling too open, the opposite of claustrophobic. _I’ll be right,_ he thinks as he toes off his shoes, stripping down to his boxer briefs and missing the barrier of his curls, mourning their convenience. _You’ll be right,_ he tries to remember as he climbs into bed, covers up to his naked shoulders, room dark save for the bright blue of his laptop. He pulls up the locked folder, repeating to himself over and over – _you’ll be right, you’ll be right_ – and clicks through until he gets there.

The guitar sounds throughout his room, quiet but all-consuming, and Harry closes his eyes on an ethereal blue glow to let the song sink in, let those other words fade into the background in a comforting hum rather than remain a harsh reminder of what he’s lost. 

 _Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry, too..._  

Harry wishes; but something tells him that even if Zayn called him, it would hardly be to apologise. The thought frightens him; having to hear all the reasons why Zayn left. It’s been two years, but Harry’s not strong enough to hear any of it. He’s not sure he ever will be. 

He closes his eyes, and he listens. It’s no longer comfortable silence, this chasm between them. And that’s about the worst thing Harry can imagine.

He’d say it was almost a conscious choice to go to New York, then, but the more rational side of him reminds him that he has commitments outside of his friends, outside of ruminating upon his last proper relationship. If he can even call it that, he tries not to realise too vividly; it’s a little hard to be in a relationship when you don’t talk about it.

Either way, New York City holds too many memories. Both good and bad, but the worst kind are the ones with Zayn – just the two of them, together. There are the multitude of hotel rooms, the Empire State Building seen out the window; there are the few late night hole-in-the-wall dinners, Harry trying to entwine their legs underneath the table to Zayn’s puzzled smile. Then there’s the fighting – doors softly closed on Harry’s apologies, on Zayn’s silence; there were the weird looks they got from some of the crew when they almost got caught snogging in one of the backstage hallways of Madison Square Garden; and then, most vividly, there’s Zayn beneath him, above him, beside him, and worst of all inside his room without Harry. Harry, who was across the hall in his own bed, staring at Zayn’s contact in his phone, desperate and in love and unable to figure out how to make it work. To make it _real._

Maybe that’s why Zayn’s based here – he knows it’d keep Harry away, at any rate. The thought makes Harry’s throat sting, a rushing sound resonating in his ears like the concept is so unbelievable he’s been made dysfunctional. 

But Harry’s an expert, well-versed, in ignoring something that makes him freeze up, that leaves him almost catatonic. Harry knows how to be a professional, and he arrives at the studio for rehearsals with a smile on his face and his favourite Hawaiian shirt on his back. This is how Harry operates, and no one ever knew. They still don’t. He’s impervious even to himself, and that’s how it needs to be.

This is what he tells himself, when he sees the [picture](http://pbs.twimg.com/media/C8mQRueXoAA_afX.jpg). The tattoo is red and raw and it makes Harry want another one – but most of all it makes Harry freeze in his hotel room, wondering.

He ignores the red lips, the ones he used to meet with his own. He sees the mandala and part of him breaks just a little.

It’s beautiful, of course – when Zayn puts thought into it, when it’s not on a whim, his tattoos are incredible. They’re introspective, they’re carefully crafted, perfectly placed; Harry’s spent hours going over them reverently – whether it be with his eyes or his mouth or the softest touch he could manage whilst Zayn lay asleep, mouth open on a soft snore.

This one feels like a hit, though, when Harry knows it’s not – it can’t be, can it? He doesn’t mean anything to Zayn, not anymore. If he ever did. Harry can be self-centred but he’s smart enough to know that Zayn didn’t get this with him in mind, even if he spoke of his wrist tattoo – so similar – meaning things like commitment, soulfulness, reverie. The things he said Harry gave him, once, when he was high and horny. Zayn probably doesn’t even remember it, but Harry does. He’s never forgotten that vivid memory; Zayn leaning against his side, a spliff between Harry’s fingers. He’d laughed into Harry’s wrist, got wistful about it being bare – it’d been his right arm – and spoke of mandalas and mindfulness and maybe, just maybe, there was a connection there? When they join hands and Zayn’s tattoo presses into Harry’s bare skin, maybe then Harry will feel everything Zayn feels.

Harry had been high, but he’s never forgotten the red of Zayn’s lips, the ashen colour of his cheeks, the greasiness of his hair. It had felt like the rawest moment between them, and Harry had held it close, cherished it, when all Zayn did once he sobered was pull away, expressionless, leaving Harry with an empty phone and an empty bed.

Like he’s wont to do lately, Harry can’t stop thinking about it. Throughout rehearsals, and even when he meets up with Gemma and Lottie at some obscure restaurant for lunch one day, the both of them conveniently in New York. 

“You alright?” Gemma asks him softly when Lottie goes to the bathroom between mains and dessert. It’s not like Harry doesn’t trust Lottie, or that she doesn’t know – but Gemma’s always been sensitive to his moods, and she seems to sense that he doesn’t want Louis to know about this, at the very least. 

“I–” He shoves a ringed hand into his hair, a pang in his chest when he can’t follow through and yank out the tangles, “I’ve been better, honestly.”

His sister stays silent, and Harry hates that he feels the need to fill it – that this habit he’s created, where he can’t be alone with anyone, came from Zayn. It always leads back to Zayn. Zayn, Zayn, Zayn, and Harry just wants to fucking move on, get Zayn out of his bloodstream. Out of his sodding DNA, at this rate.

“I saw a photo,” Harry begins, glancing to his side to make sure Lottie isn’t returning, “He got a tattoo, and– you know, it’s no different, I guess,” He fiddles with his dessert fork and spoon, “Just made me remember some things.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, the only sound the clatter of cutlery and soft conversation of the people around them. Gemma looks impassive, but not cold. “It’s been two years, H.” 

“I know.” Harry rushes to say, quiet and suddenly feeling embarrassed about this. It’s just a tattoo, and he doesn’t need to worry his sister with the way he’s been thinking lately – like maybe what he told them wasn’t how things really went. That maybe he _had_ been wrong.

 _He’s the one who left,_ something hisses in his head.

“Harry,” Gemma starts gently, putting a thin hand on his forearm. But Lottie returns, and Harry finds the words caught in his throat, his heart only pumping weakly as if an afterthought. 

 _Zayn,_ it beats, _Zayn, Zayn._

Harry smiles as Lottie sits, pulling his arm out from under Gemma’s touch.

“Pregnant yet?” asks Harry, squawking when he gets hit upside the head.

“Twat.” Lottie rolls her eyes, but her smile says Harry’s not far off the mark in her thinking.

He’s glad, he realises. At least someone should be happy, he thinks, carefully refusing to acknowledge Gemma’s searching looks.

 

***

 

**April, 2016**

 

He avoids it for a solid week. A Herculean effort, by any means. Louis caved on day one, and Liam had already heard the damn thing before the artwork was even decided. Niall had just shrugged, unbothered – he’s always been the best at letting things slip him by, the best at being normal.

Harry feels anything but normal. It’s an itch under his skin – he goes around town and he can’t help but be seen. It makes him nervous, makes him resentful. Certain... things used to help. These days Harry just has his Spin Cycle and the illusion that pen and paper will both express his emotions and rid him of them. The latter is, he’s found, not true.

The cursor stares back at him, challenging, like it doesn’t believe Harry will do it.

He clicks, sucking in a harsh breath as iTunes asks him for his Apple ID password, as _Mind of Mine_ turns from _DOWNLOAD_ to _PURCHASED._ He has the vague thought that there’s some Apple intern out there in the ether – an intern who can see his purchase history, who wonders what the hell Harry Styles is doing purchasing Zayn Malik’s debut album.

He buys it, but he doesn’t listen. It’s all there, even the bonus tracks. Twenty fucking songs for Harry to sit through and wonder if Zayn means any of them. It’s been a year since they’ve spoken, and Harry’s been doing a bang up job of not thinking about it. It’s hard, though, when it’s all anyone has been talking about – _what do you think it’ll be like?_ And _are you happy for him?_ Harry nods and smiles because all he can do is nod and smile. There’s nothing left in him for much more.

The worst aspect about the whole thing – Harry muses days later as he makes his way home from Nick’s, belly full of good food and even better wine – is that Zayn probably hasn’t even thought about him. He’s been out there, looking healthy, looking the best Harry’s seen him in a while – he’s out there with his fake girlfriend (or is it real? Harry tries not to wonder) building a name for himself and erasing the history he has with them.

The history he has with Harry.

He bites at his thumbnail in bed when he gets home, iTunes open and _Aha Shake Heartbreak_ playing on low volume. The obnoxious lettering stares back at him, and Harry has barely a moment to glimpse _iT’s YoU BeFoUr sHe_ before he almost smashes the enter button, closing his eyes as he shoves his laptop off his lap to lie next to him on the bed.

It’s more than he ever thought he could take. The glow of his bedside lamp feels too hot in the face of the intro, of Zayn’s voice echoing around him like he’s inside his head, like he’s whispering, “Open up and see what’s inside of my mind,” right into Harry’s ear.

Like he’d ever do that – like Harry was ever privy to Zayn’s innermost, intimate thoughts. He thought he had been, but... well, he’d had a whole lot wrong, hadn’t he?

Harry’s heard the first notes of the single before, but he’s always been quick to subtly change the station or leave the room to avoid the rest. Hearing _climb on board, we’ll go slow and high tempo_ makes his breath catch. 

“Nobody but you, ‘body but me, ‘body but us, bodies together,” Zayn sings, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think of all the ways they were entwined – past body, even. The rest sounds fuzzy to his ears, and he manages to tune back in once the chorus hits, a crescendo that has him remembering when Zayn wanted to add runs to their songs, wanted to make things more poetic in both lyrics and melody.

_“Sorry, Zayn,” Liam had said, face downturned and sad, “But it won’t fit with the sound.”_

Harry pushes away the memory of Zayn’s expression, sullen and moody and fed up.

“Be in the bed all day, bed all day, bed all day,” Zayn repeats, and Harry’s heart stutters, his palms going sweaty, “Fucking in, fighting on – it's our paradise and it's our war zone...”

“ _Jesus._ ” Harry utters, shoving a trembling hand through his newly short hair, wondering whether this has anything to do with him and not entirely sure whether or not he’d like it to. It feels bare, vulnerable; like Zayn’s exposing their secrets for the whole world to see. No one would know, of course – they’d likely think it was about Liam before they ever thought it was about Harry – but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach, doesn’t make Harry feel any less naked as he lies there in his bed, fully clothed.

“Pillow talk! My enemy, my ally...”

The sweat’s moved from his palms to the back of his neck, now, and Harry bites at his lip, trying not to imagine all the ways they sat together, talking to each other across a pillow or a couch or the spray, naked and unable to stop touching.

The way Zayn used to hate how Harry kept him up rushes to the forefront of his mind; but how he’d eye Harry if he didn’t say anything – wondering why he’d decided to shut up then and never any other time – won’t leave Harry’s thoughts. Zayn knew him across a pillow better than his own mother sometimes, and there’s an ache that settles into Harry’s chest at the idea of Zayn having found their talks both comforting and dreadful, when they were the only thing that kept Harry going most days – that promise of a pillow.

The song finishes in repeats of the chorus, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief when it’s over, thankful he never had the guts to listen to it in his car, or in front of others. 

The soft falsetto of the next song makes him feel something Louis would punch him for – there’s a small part of him that sees it, now. He never quite did before, his judgement too clouded to be able to assess the situation objectively. He knows the kind of music they make isn’t Zayn, not in any way. But he made it his for a bit, when he took up the microphone and sang that long note during _Rock Me._ The vocal runs in _Broken Hearts_ that he’d add, smiling when Harry kissed him senseless in their hotel room after... that was all Zayn, even if he had to scream through the rest of them to be heard. 

But then Harry hears _I looked at it like a blessing, and now it's just a curse_ and he can’t quite breathe properly anymore, not nearly enough to remember all the times Zayn sat quiet during writing sessions, when his voice got softer and softer until it wasn’t there at all. All he sees is Zayn looking at him, face blank, and telling Harry exactly what he didn’t want to hear, exactly what Zayn knew would keep Harry from running after him. The truth Harry never fully realised.

“I’ve done this before,” startles him from his reverie, “Not like this...”

The beat hits him hard, and Zayn’s words double the impact, making Harry rub tired and rough hands over his face, bringing his knees up to encase them in his arms, thumb and forefinger encircling his right wrist like curling up will protect him from the calm anger in Zayn’s perfectly aimed phrases.

“So say what you wanna say, what you want – shame is you won't say that to my face.” Harry clenches his jaw, bones of his wrist grinding with the force he’s placing on them.

“You've got your tongue in your cheek, so pardon if I don't speak. Can't tune my chords into your songs, no...” His face aches, and Harry realises there are hot tears in his eyes. He swallows down the hurt – both physical and emotional – and breathes deep. “Now I'm on a roof. Set it on fire.”

_Set it on fire._

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Harry shouts, voice hoarse as he leaps from the bed. He slams his laptop shut, and the music cuts abruptly. It seems a surprise, now that his bedroom is silent apart from his heavy breathing. The words echo in his brain like a metronome, over and over to a rhythm Harry never wanted to hear. _Set it on fire, set it on fire, set it on fire–_ “Fuck you, Zayn.” The whisper seems loud, and suddenly Harry wants him to hear it, all the way from wherever he is – Los Angeles or just over the way across London. Zayn deserves it, writing that. Like ‘it’ meant nothing to him. Like Harry meant nothing. “Fuck you!” He screams, and then he can’t stop, the tears sliding down his face and the words pouring from his mouth and straining his voice in a way that makes him flinch back instinctively, a flurry of people over the years telling him to take care of himself. “FUCKING _FUCK YOU!_ YOU’RE THE ONE WHO LEFT! _SHIT!_ ”

Inhaling sharply, he turns from his bed and strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him like Zayn is right there, like he’s staring at Harry with that stupid non-expression on his face and Harry has the satisfaction of closing a door on it. He leans against the wood, chest heaving.

But he doesn’t feel better. In fact, he feels worse – because Zayn’s not behind that door, not even with that blank look in his eyes. Zayn’s nowhere near Harry; hasn’t been in the past year and definitely isn’t now and certainly won’t be in the future. Zayn’s never going to be near Harry again.

He takes to the tequila after that.

 

***

 

**April to May, 2017**

 

He feels accomplished, a bit scared – which is normal when he branches out and does something a little left of centre – but happy and proud for the most part, his skin buzzing with the promise of change.

He’s learnt to relish in the differing dynamics of his life now that the band is on hiatus – he’s been searching for new things to do constantly, hoping to fill that void. Songwriting is, of course, his main outlet – but the film is the first thing he’s pushed himself to do since everything got so fucked up. And it’s led him here, blood rushing at the thrill of being so close to failure but _just_ skating past.

Unwanted thoughts slide into the forefront of his mind, then – is this how _he_ felt when he left, rudderless and confused but determined to make something of himself, to do better? Harry’s reluctant to assume anything about him anymore, but there’s a snide voice that can’t be ignored when it whispers at him vehemently – _he assumed things about_ you.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to go out like this when he’s had such things on his mind – Harry’s always been susceptible to blabbling when drunk, and although it’s usually about babies and his mum and funny fan signs, sometimes it ventures into darker territory that really only Niall is able to get him out of. But Niall’s not here tonight, and the SNL crowd don’t know how to handle Harry when he’s like this. A few of them are chuckling along to his slurred words, charmed by the idea of him, but Kendall’s wide eyes have Harry turning to his mobile, heavy and dangerous in his clumsy fingers. He never should have asked her along, wanting a more familiar face – she’s too close to _him,_ only one friend away... Harry’s sorely tempted to start something, interrogate her until he’s in front of that New York City apartment, thumping on the door and yelling for Zayn to show his unfairly pretty face, to explain that tattoo.

He looks down at his phone, the pink case reflecting the colourful club lights and the thumping beat of some _Shape Of You_ remix making the hair on his arms vibrate. It seems so innocuous, this small device. He thinks of all the things he could say as Kendall pushes past dancing club-goers, her eyes still wide. Harry sculls the rest of his tequila sunrise and seals his fate.

 _Hi,_ he’s sent by mistake, his text unfinished when Kendall grabs his phone, laughing and swinging her hair as if he’s just fallen over comically.

“Babe, what are you up to?” she asks him, though he gets the feeling it’s not exactly a question, her face swimming before his eyes, “On your phone like this – this is your night! Come on, let’s dance.”

He takes the phone back from her without thought, “Hold on,” he slurs, tapping out some more – but there’s no three dots, not even a _Read 2:57am_ that he can stare it. It’s just blank – one more moment in a list of disappointing moments, Harry’s heart sinking and sinking until it lands on his diaphragm, hindering his ability to breathe.

_Been thinkinf about yiu. Your face ans hiw you lookes wheb you left_

He stares down at the garbled message, avoiding the gentle pull of Kendall’s grip on his wrist.

_Im_

He stares at it, unmoving. It feels like there’s a haze over him, stopping him from continuing.

His fingers are trembling. He can’t finish it. He’s not even sorry, is he? If he was, he’d have called Zayn, maybe visited him. And sober. He’d grovel at his feet and he’d apologise and he’d accept anything Zayn gave him, good or bad. If Harry was truly sorry, if he truly understood – he might even leave Zayn alone.

But he can’t do that. Harry knows himself – at least well enough to admit that when it comes to his personal life, he’s not the most selfless person around. He holds on and he doesn’t let go, not even when someone asks him to. He doesn’t even try to keep someone around if they float away, untethered, either. It’s easier, he tries to reason – what’s the point in trying when his heart’s not fully in it? It’s just going to hurt someone in the end, and Harry – for all his faults and flaws – doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

That’s how he’s always thought about it, at least.

 _You didn’t hurt him,_ he tries to figure out, thoughts muddled, _He hurt you, and he left you alone, he didn’t want to be there, he couldn’t see what he’d done after, he didn’t see how the others dragged you to the bathroom and washed you up, he’s the one who floated away all too willingly–_

His phone vibrates, and Harry snaps his gaze back to it, completely ignoring Kendall’s insistent tugs. 

_maybe you should stay away from the tequila yeah? You know how that makes you._

There’s something in Harry’s throat that makes it hard to speak, and he’s gripping the phone so tightly his nails sting and his knuckles ache.

“–it, okay? You’ll be good, babe, come on–”

Like clockwork – he was wondering how long it would take for this to happen – Harry’s tapping out something that makes him feel better in a heartbeat, but also makes his palms sweat, his phone nearly slip out of his hands with how aggressively his thumbs push at it.

 _Remembr orlando?_ He’s written, there in white on green – stark and unique and poisonous. Part of him feels victorious. _Fucked for hourss and yiu coulfnt even get oit pf bed._ His jaw aches with how hard he’s clenching it, muscles shifting with the pressure. _Bet Giigi doesnft dop that._

He waits, glaring down at his phone, but no answer comes – it doesn’t now and it didn’t two years ago. Kendall’s really pulling on him now, and Harry looks up, blinking, to see her eyes wider than before, her smile that edge of fake. Maybe she knows something he doesn’t. He doesn’t quite have the energy to ask, though. Not when Zayn won’t answer, will never answer, will never grant Harry the kind of respect one might give the person they had sex with for two years. All Harry’s ever wanted – he realises now, in the haze of intoxication – was a reason. But it seems that Zayn’s still unable to give him one.

“Shit,” Harry mumbles, wiping at his eyes, “God, this is a right mess.”

Kendall doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to – Harry knows what he looks like. He’s the one who’s the mess.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks as he pockets his phone, taking Kendall’s drink from her hand and sculling it, almost falling over backwards as he stumbles with the force of throwing his head back.

He can’t think, not when Zayn seems so cool, so level-headed. That was always the problem; Harry was more invested, had more to lose if things went south. Zayn was along for the ride, and Harry thinks he deserves answers and reasons but if it didn’t mean anything to Zayn, then Harry’s already got those things, hasn’t he? Zayn left because Harry wasn’t enough, and he’d fallen out of love with everything else. That’s how Niall’s always put it – _he fell out of love with it by the end, yeah?_ – and Harry had always just smiled wryly, because he’d thought for so long that Zayn had fallen out of love with him, too. But that wasn’t the case at all, was it? Zayn had never fallen in the first place. Hadn’t even stepped into the arena by March 2015. And he’s so far from it all now that Harry’s chest squeezes and squeezes and squeezes until he can’t breathe.

“Harry?” Kendall’s voice is loud in his ear, grating, and he cringes away. “Shit, Harry, come on. Breathe, buddy.”

He’s gasping for air against the wall of the club, the brick grazing his forearms and bringing everything into sharp clarity. Harry’s falling apart little by little over this, and Zayn doesn’t even care.

 _He’s the one who left,_ that voice whispers sibilantly again. _You never would have. Not without him._

“Shut up,” Harry spits out, and Kendall rears back as he pants against the wall, eyes pushing into his arm to drown everything out, sweaty hair curling around his ears.

“Fuck you, Harry.” Kendall says, though she doesn’t sound too offended. She leaves, though, and Harry stumbles until he finds a drink. He inhales that, and then he stumbles until he finds the door, breathing in the crisp, cool air of one of New York’s Spring nights.

The hangover the next day is awful, and he sends Kendall a pathetic apology via text message before he falls back into bed, the white of his sheets contrasting with the tips of his hair – what he can see of it, anyway. He thinks of Zayn against white and closes his eyes so tightly they burn, the dark red of his eyelids a welcome relief.

He gets approached by fans the next day, manages to evade some stalkers, and hopes against hope that his tired eyes don’t make it onto the rumour blogs. He doesn’t want any more speculation about why he looks a little lost, about why he can’t seem to hold down a relationship, and how he dates models because he’s the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Harry can’t take it, not today.

He spends his flight back home in first class with his head back, eyes closed and sunglasses protecting him from scrutiny.

London feels like security blanket when he arrives, the grey skies comforting even though he prefers L.A. weather these days.

His phone’s received one text whilst he’s flown, dated from a few hours ago when Harry was hovering over the Atlantic. It’s from Louis.

 _Reign in your ex,_ he’s written, _because now you look like a tosser ._

There’s a link he’s pasted, and as Harry opens the front door of his house, he clicks through to Tumblr, of all things – he’ll have to rib Louis for that later – to see a quote from that morning’s Breakfast show.

 _Sinead: Harry hasn't got anything bad to say [about Zayn].  
_ _Nick: Well, probably. But probably not to Rolling Stone._

Harry takes a minute to read it, over and over, like that’ll erase it from his mind. He rings up Nick without thinking as he dumps his bag in the hall, even if Nick’s probably having his afternoon nap right about now.

“‘ello?” He sounds tired, and the vindictive part of Harry likes that’s he’s woken him up, that his sleep schedule will be fucked for a day because Nick was a twat this morning. He deserves it.

“Why’d you have to say that?” Harry blurts out, too tired and strained from his flight to clarify.

“Wha’?” Nick asks, and Harry can imagine his frown, his scoff, “Harry?”

“ _Stop,_ ” Harry stresses, “Just stop. You’ve got to stop talking shit about him.”

“Harry,” Nick starts, a little warningly and much more awake now.

“No, Nick. I let you talk shit about him for a bit, because–” Harry frowns, the guilt swirling in his abdomen, “Because I needed it, alright? But I–” He presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes, relishing in the ache a bit, “He did what he had to do, and I was a twat,” Harry thinks he ought to have known, really, that Zayn didn’t feel that way, “and I get it. Kind of.” There’s still so much he _doesn’t_ know, however; so many questions he has – but he can’t keep blaming Zayn for it, not when it’s turned up nothing but rot the past two years. Harry likes to think he’s more mature now, or something.

He doesn’t think about New York.

“Trashing him on radio isn’t helping me, and it’s _shit._ ” Harry blinks through the stars he’s seeing, running a hand through his short hair. “It’s _shit,_ Nick, alright?”

“Alright!” Nick exclaims, and Harry can hear the placation and not the apology, “Fucking Christ, Harry, he’s your ex. If you can’t trash your ex, who can you trash?”

“Just don’t.” Harry grits out, hanging up on him to drop his mobile onto his bed, sick and tired of teetering on the edge of everything. He hates Zayn, and then he doesn’t. He understands Zayn, and then he doesn’t. He’s sick of this see-saw, he just wants to be fucking certain of something for once in his life, and Zayn going around tattooing bloody traditional wedding tattoos on himself isn’t helping.

Harry groans, rubbing both of his hands over his face. 

“Just accept it,” he mutters to himself thirty minutes later in the shower, pinching himself awake, “Why can’t you fucking accept it?”

The tiles don’t answer, and Harry drowns himself in the spray, locking it all back down again. He’s got promo in two days, and Harry is impenetrable. No one knows, and no one has to know. That’s the way it is.

It’s all easier said than done, though – and Harry knows when he meets up with Liam after Graham Norton, after spending every spare moment in Spin Cycle, that there are some people he can’t lie to, and Liam is one of them.

“Who’s my favourite godkid?” Harry coos to Bear, who puts his tiny little palm and chubby fingers on Harry’s cheek. It’s definitely by accident, but Harry pretends it’s not. Bear loves him.

“You’re not even his godparent, Haz,” Liam sighs, and he looks tired. Harry supposes a new born will do that to you.

“Ouch,” Harry deadpans, a hand on his chest. “Hit me where it hurts, why don’t you.”

Liam snorts, pulling away to lead Harry into the living room.

“You’ve no idea how refreshing it is,” Liam says after they’ve chatted for a bit, the two of them sitting on the floor, “To be able to talk about something that’s not nappies.”

“I can talk about nappies, if you’d like,” Harry teases, laughing when Liam groans. “Don’t worry, Leemo, I won’t. How’s things musically? Doing much?”

“Not as much as I’d like. It’s a bit– I didn’t expect it to be this difficult to, like, juggle stuff.” Liam frowns, and his short hair makes him look a lot older than his twenty-three years. Harry has to remember to tell him to grow it out. “That sounds bad, but I’m trying to be a good dad. And I guess I forgot how much of a perfectionist I can be, in the studio,” Harry raises an eyebrow, “Don’t look at me like that. Cheryl did the exact same thing.”

“Well, she’d be right,” Harry tells him, staring at his soon-to-be godson, “You honestly forgot? Liam, come on.”

“I know, I know.” Liam mutters. 

“But that’s going well, then?” Harry asks politely. He doesn’t really know Cheryl, and he feels bad for a moment because he’s never really made the effort – but that’s the sort of friends they all are, these days. Bit hard to be as involved as they were on tour, when there wasn’t a moment they were out of each other’s sights. Almost, anyway. “You and Cheryl?”

“Yeah, man,” answers Liam, smiling with crinkles by his eyes, “We have our moments, but for the most part it’s good, it’s working.”

“Great,” Harry says, smiling down at Bear and trying not to feel jealous. Fuck, he’s so messed up. “That’s good, Li, I’m glad to hear.”

There’s a minute or two of silence as Harry brings his legs up as some kind of shield, watching as Liam holds toys in front of Bear and tries to get him to interact with them. It’s probably pointless, because Bear’s only a few months old – but Harry likes watching Liam try, even so.

Soon enough, though, Harry can’t keep it in. As Bear drools like he’s imagining the best sort of pie to eat, Harry blurts it out without thinking.

“You know,” He starts conversationally, as if he’s not just about to drop something on Liam he won’t be able to forget, likely, “Zayn and I slept together.” 

Even Bear gurgles in response, which is much better than Liam’s dead silence. Harry reluctantly drags his eyes away from the baby to see Liam frozen, mouth slightly agape. It’d be comical if Harry could somehow get his lungs to work.

“Haz...” Liam trails off, eyes wide, still staring at him as Harry sits there on the floor, knees up to his elbows and arms holding them in, “Wow, that’s...”

Harry chuckles sparingly, something dark and void of amusement. He feels his chest constrict, his hands shake the tiniest bit. He hopes Liam doesn’t notice – he’s not sure he can explain the very intricacies of exactly how many times he and Zayn slept together, and sometimes not even with the exchange of orgasms. That’d be too much, Harry thinks, to unload on Liam right now. It’s too much for Harry to bear thinking about, anyway.

 _Heh,_ he thinks, _Bear._ The baby drools some more, his bib looking filthy.

“When did you see him?” Liam asks, and he sounds hesitant.

Harry frowns, snapping his eyes to his friend. Liam’s got his brows furrowed, a hand scratching at his stubble. “What do you mean? We were in a band together.”

Liam’s face clears suddenly, and he nods. “Right, right. So this was... it wasn’t recently?”

“No,” Harry scowls, “Jesus, Liam, what did you think?”

“I don’t know!” Liam exclaims, throwing his hands out in exasperation, “You just sort of hit me with this, Haz. No context at all. What was I meant to think? Reasonably, one would assume you meant the other week if you’re bringing it up now.”

Harry’s face must still be shadowed, because Liam softens his tone, his eyes turning from frustrated to resigned in a flash. He sighs, long and low, looking down at the crown of his son’s head as he waves his arms, content to sit in his father’s lap. 

“Why did you bring it up now?” He asks quietly, catching Harry’s eyes as he lifts his head. Harry looks away and down, fiddling with the rings on his fingers like they don’t remind him of Zayn at all – he tries to tell himself there are parts of him that don’t belong to Zayn in some way, but it’s getting harder and harder to convince himself of that. Now that he’s thinking about him again – now that Harry is remembering what happened with new eyes.

“I can’t stop thinking about it, Liam,” he admits, bringing a hand up to pull at his bottom lip, brows furrowed, “Ever since the segment. Hearing his voice again...” He drops his hand, scratching at his jaw in agitation, “I dunno. It was like the floodgates opened or somethin’.”

Liam hums thoughtfully, playing around with Bear’s limbs like he’s a puppet, looking at Harry evenly.

“Years back,” Liam starts, and Harry raises an eyebrow, “Zayn might have mentioned something. He was vague – I mean, you know Zayn,” Harry swallows thickly, “But he mentioned something might have gone on. I just told him to not let it affect the band. I...” Liam’s eyes get apologetic, and he drops his son’s arms gently to place a hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing, “I’m sorry, H. I didn’t think... well, I didn’t imagine it was anything more than, well, helping each other out, maybe.”

“It wasn’t,” Harry rushes to say, “It really wasn’t. I just... I fucked things up when I stopped speaking to him. And–” He inhales sharply, blinking away any wetness in his eyes, “Well, it might’ve been more on my end, but Zayn never said, and I guess it made–” He sounds jerky, stilted, and the tone doesn’t leave his voice. Like it’s attached itself to all memories of Zayn, just like Harry can’t get that blank expression out of his mind; the way Zayn left him there. “–sense when he left.”

“Haz...” Liam says again, and this time the pity makes Harry feel fidgety, unwelcome. He frees his legs, spreads them out on the floor and smiles the best he can.

“Let’s not talk about it. I’m so sick of talking about it, Liam.”

Liam stares at him a moment, Bear fidgeting in his arms and a look in his eye that Harry doesn’t like before he smiles, nodding. “Alright, Haz. I can talk about nappies, if you’d like?” 

Harry laughs, and he pushes it all away again. It’s easy because Harry’s practised – but he knows it’ll be worse when it comes out again, when he lets himself think about it. And he will. Zayn made sure of that.

The next few days go by like his life always does these days – in a flurry of interviews and phone calls and trying to get himself sorted. He feels a strange sense of hope after talking to Liam, though. If Zayn mentioned Harry at all, mentioned what they’d been doing – maybe it meant something. Maybe it’s like that moment when Zayn spoke about his wrist, when he was as high as a kite and let something slip.

The hope stays with him, comforts him, makes him feel better about the desperate plea at the end of his album when he lies awake in bed at night, wondering. He drops another hint, this time in an interview Zayn’s surely not going to see. It makes Harry brave, a little bold. What’s the harm in it, if he won’t see it?

“I don’t always say a lot,” he starts with, the interviewer curious about his writing process, “And I think it’s a time, you and an instrument – it’s a time to be at your most vulnerable.” He tries not to fiddle with his rings, continuing even as his pulse picks up, as his heart races. “I think it’s a lot easier to say something to an instrument,” he explains, thinking of sitting along in hotel rooms with a guitar instead of a person, “than it is to say to someone else.”

The interviewer nods, and the fact that they’ve got absolutely no clue makes Harry want to burst into laughter then and there, hysterical and mad and then reading headlines the next day about how he’s gone bonkers.

“I know, for me, I find it very therapeutic to write,” He makes this point clear – he’s been trying to, for the most part, but he adds on the last few words thinking about the last song on the album, about how someone might listen to it, “and to be honest while writing.” 

His eyes flick to the camera, and he hopes.

He just wants answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Zarry so I'd love some constructive feedback if you can give it. I'm not entirely sure about this one but I just had to post otherwise it was never going to get done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing like a mad woman. Next chapter won't be so speedy!

**May, 2017**

 

 _Slow Hands_ is a tune. Harry loves it – he sings it in the shower, laughing at Niall’s sexual lyrics because it’s, well, _Niall;_ his mate. One of his best mates. And Harry loves him, but thinking about Niall’s hands anywhere on his body like that isn’t the best image, hence the laughter.

It’s the song that’s stuck in his head when he heads back to Cheshire, feeling _home_ seep through his skin and straight into his bones.

“Love,” His mum says, pulling back from the hug she gives him. Harry smiles at her, trying to make it reach his eyes. He makes a habit of being honest with his mum, but he doesn’t want her to worry. She was there when Harry came home from tour two years ago, quiet and subdued with red-rimmed eyes. She knows what happened, because Gemma woke up to him sobbing in his sleep one night – she shook him awake and he mumbled it all into her pyjamas, pathetic and heartbroken and wondering whether he’d ever be whole again.

His mum doesn’t need to know he’s breaking apart at the seams again. He can keep it together for her, be less of a mess. She’s proud of him, she says into his ear when she hugs him again, and she can’t wait to start talking about his music again.

Gemma’s in London, so it’s just his Mum and Robin at home. He spends the rest of the day with them, and then he calls up Abigail and organises to see her tomorrow.

“She’s such a lovely girl, darling,” His mum tells him at dinner when he mentions it, “It’s a shame things never worked out.”

“We were fourteen, Mum,” Harry laughs, shaking his head, “We weren’t going to last.”

“I wish I’d met your mother at fourteen, lad,” Robin chuckles, and Harry scrunches up his nose.

“Don’t say that,” Harry grumbles, “I love you, Robin, but that’s my Mum you’re talking about.”

Anne rolls her eyes, and Harry feels something settle within him that he’s missed all these months away – there’s nothing quite like home, where he’s told to do the dishes and he falls asleep to posters of Britney Spears in _his_ bedroom.

Abi has the grace to laugh about it when he mentions it the next day. The sky is a little overcast, though the warmer weather promises clarity in the coming week. Harry’s a bit disappointed he’ll miss it.

When she moves to lie back, the trampoline causes Harry to bounce a bit.

“S’nice here, though. Isn’t it?” Harry says idly, squinting up at the sky as he, too, lies down.

“It’s why I’m still here, innit?” She says, and he turns to look at her smile, her dark skin glowing even without sun. “It’s cozy.”

“Cozy,” Harry barks out, laughing, scratching at his chest absently, “Are you trying to sell me real estate, Abigail?”

“Oh, sod off!” She exclaims, laughing as well, “Not all of us can disappear to London or L.A. or wherever you are.”

Things feel less light-hearted then, and Harry tilts his head to look above him, searching the skies for some shape to distract himself.

“No, I know that.” Harry acknowledges, and there’s a more comfortable quiet, then, as they both stare up at the English sky.

“Do you think I’m different?” Harry asks suddenly, deliberately not looking at her.

“Your hair’s cut off, for one,” She teases, and Harry punches her lightly in the thigh, rolling his eyes.

“Right, you mean are you Mr Famous now or what?” She sighs, and Harry turns his head to look at her now, trying to parse her expression. She seems contemplative, if a little reluctant. “Ain’t gonna lie to you, babe, you’re not completely the same. You’re an adult now,” she hurries to say, flitting her eyes to him for a second before continuing to gaze at the clouds, “So, you know, to be expected. But you’re...”

“What?” Harry prods, sitting up to lean on his left elbow, frowning down at her.

“Don’t take it like that,” She scowls, “I haven’t even said anything.”

Harry just waits – he’s used to waiting now, used to not saying much at all. It became easier, after _he_ left, to let other people take the reins, to let other people project onto him. He didn’t have much to say, anymore. No one to say it to, is probably more accurate.

“Sometimes you get out of your head, yeah?” She huffs, rolling her eyes, “Shit, I sound fancy. You’re just forgetful, Harry.”

“Well, I don’t _mean_ to be.” Harry replies, a little petulantly. Why’s it when _he’s_ forgetful, it’s a big deal? Other people forget things all the time, and yet Harry is the one who’s always called up on it. It doesn’t seem fair, all of a sudden.

“We _know_ that,” Abigail stresses, and she corrects herself at his frown, “I mean, _I_ know that, alright? But like, when was the last time we spoke to each other?”

“I dunno,” Harry responds instantly, wracking his brain for an answer, “Six months ago, maybe?”

“ _Harry,_ ” Abi says, and Harry huffs, feeling guilty at her tone. “It’s been nearly two years.” Harry opens his mouth, but Abi cuts him off, “I was surprised you contacted me at all, to be honest.”

And that leaves him speechless – a difficult feat.

“Look, I don’t blame you, yeah? Your life is crazy,” She laughs, but Harry doesn’t see the funny in it – he’s feeling rather awful, all-round, to be honest. And this was – even at fourteen, even as friends – where they never really worked. Harry gets maudlin and emotional and Abi just laughs it off, doesn’t even notice him getting quiet before he’s full-on sulking. And fourteen year old Harry sulked a _lot_. “Just as long as you know? It’s good to know that about yourself.”

“Yeah,” Harry answers jerkily, “Sure.”

“You always come back, Harry,” she tells him, turning to look at him fully. Her straightened hair lays splayed behind her, and her dark brown eyes glitter in the glare of the cloudy day. “Look at you now, yeah?”

It stays with him for days, what Abigail reveals to him. It seems harsher, somehow, coming from someone who’s known him outside of The X-Factor. Harry can always brush off the things people say, can always tell himself they don’t really know him – not how he knows himself. But Abigail knew him before he became famous, and she’s not blinded by the love his family has for him.

It follows him to London, where he anticipates the album release with bated breath. It’s in a week, and Harry thinks about everything that led him to that point – the break up, the uncertainty, branching out, reaching out, feeling like he had something to say to someone who didn’t want to hear it... it’s all come to a head. He spends a lot of time pacing through his house, hoping his phone will ring, hoping for something he doesn’t want to think about for too long.

It won’t happen, though. Harry knows it, just like Abigail knows him. Harry’s been coming back to Zayn for years, but Zayn isn’t interested, doesn’t want him to come back at all. He feels like the only person who doesn’t, and Harry has the fleeting, terrifying thought that maybe that’s why Harry loves him.

Everyone wants a piece of him, it seems. They want to know him, to be his friend, to date him – and all Harry wants is to be left alone with a piano, pen, and paper. He wants to tour when he releases an album; but he wants to be a different person on stage, wants to go absolutely crazy... and then come home and be himself. That’s all he wants, and he’ll take whoever can give him that.

It might have been that Zayn could, once upon a time. If Zayn had tried, maybe; if Zayn had thought the same thing; thought that Harry could give him that peace, could let him be that person. The more he thinks about it, though, the more Harry realises that Zayn didn’t give Harry anything; at least, not enough for Harry to be _someone_ to Zayn.

_I’m still the only one who’s been in love with me!_

Harry snorts, digging into his salad with a ferocity that surprises him. There’s bitterness – of course there’s bitterness – because Zayn left him without a word, like there was nothing to leave in the first place. And here Harry is, still hoping for acknowledgement – still hoping that Zayn sees what Harry’s seen all along.

 _I’m fine without you, you know,_ he texts vindictively. The initial rush is there – it always is, when he tries it on with Zayn – but it fades more quickly than it ever has, and Harry’s left alone with his salad, wondering why he can’t seem to let go.

Zayn turns up in New York City later that day, sinful in a leather jacket, his green-tipped hair giving him the edge that Harry’s always envied.

It feels like a reply, like a _Me, too_ – but Harry wouldn’t know. Zayn’s been lost to him for longer than the last time they saw each other. He’s a stranger, now; even if Harry still loves him.

 

***

 

**December, 2014**

 

Sometimes it’s easier to live in your own little bubble. Harry tries to remain grounded – he’ll admit it can be difficult, when they’re invited out to clubs and head straight to the VIP section; or how he still looks at his bank account and boggles at the numbers. It can be hard when someone offers you drugs and you think _Why not?_ because everyone else is doing it, and maybe you want to get away from it all for a bit, lose your head and then lose yourself. It’s easier, after that, for Harry to retreat to his own world, where things like fame and celebrity don’t exist, and where he can walk around holding Zayn’s hand, smiles on both of their faces.

But the reality of it is that Zayn hasn’t spoken to Harry properly in days, and it’s been even longer since they lay together, wherever that might be. He’ll be across three other blokes in interviews, whispering into Liam’s ear; or sitting, mute and empty. Harry thinks he zones out these days, which Harry can’t exactly blame him for. Harry does it, too, sometimes – it just feels more noticeable when he does, so he can’t indulge as much. Part of him feels jealous, but then he realises he likes answering questions, likes those eyes on him most of the time.

There’s some kind of chasm between them, though, that Harry is desperate to close. Every time Zayn leaves the room as the rest of them enter, or doesn’t react to Harry’s hand on his back, to Harry’s eyes following him on stage... Harry doesn’t know what he can do, so he stops. He stops trying to touch, and he lets his eyes slide over that lithe form. Zayn will come to him eventually, and when he does Harry will be ready with a smile and a cheesy pick-up line. His heart pangs at the thought of waiting, but Harry is nothing if not persistent – this will be a practice in patience. A challenge Harry is intrigued to participate in, at the very least.

He realises how long it’s been since they were alone, however, when he opens the door to Zayn’s room after a particularly cold day – no acknowledgement, no eye contact – and finds him asleep. The years they spent sharing rooms – and when they weren’t doing that, they were waiting up for each other – feel like something out of a distant dream, all of a sudden. Zayn’s curled up underneath the covers, and Harry feels like if he does anything but leave he’ll be disturbing this peaceful image, the calm that’s settled over Zayn in slumber. It’s rare, these days. His silence is always littered with an awkward pause, or a subtle discomfort.

But Harry has never considered himself particularly selfless. He knows how he is with people – how he takes and he gives equally in return... but sometimes it’s too much, the taking and the giving. It’s more than anyone, Louis once told him. He had a point – Harry’s friendships aren’t always so long-lasting, especially not when he has the opportunity to see them as much as he wants. Maybe that’s why he’s managed to keep his friends since the band, because he’s away on tour and too busy to give his friendships his usual amount of attention.

He shakes his head of those thoughts, trying to stay on task. Zayn in bed – a Zayn that Harry has been spending the last month or two drifting from, much to his unhappiness.

So maybe Harry doesn’t care about the calm right now. But _just_ right now, only in this moment. He wants – no, he _needs_ – to give himself this.

The bed is soft when he gently climbs onto it, his palms sinking further into the mattress than he anticipated. Somehow, Zayn’s beds always feel softer and more intimate – like they’re ready to embrace you and cuddle you right into sleep. It’s why Harry found himself waking up next to Zayn most days that first tour, Zayn’s bedhead and sleep-addled eyes confused but not at all questioning.

He doesn’t wake to see Harry now, though. His chest rises and falls evenly, and he shifts over onto his side to face Harry, like he knows Harry’s there next to him, his eyes roving over every inch of skin he can see.

Harry wouldn’t be able to say how long he lies there, Zayn’s eyelashes mesmerising in their length. His shoulders feel stiff and achy after a while, but Harry’s hesitant to move, frozen in time and space here on this bed, Zayn’s small frame barely moving.

At some point the covers shift and Zayn’s bare chest is exposed to the cool night air. It’s dark in the room, but Harry’s eyes have adjusted enough to see the way his waist dips in too much, to see the shadow of bone at his collarbones, the smaller size of his tattoos – if that were possible, considering Zayn’s always been slender.

It makes him fidget, uncomfortable; breaking that frozen moment between them.

Zayn’s eyes blink open slowly, sluggishly, and Harry brings his left hand up to hover near his face as if to wipe the corner of his eyes. Once Zayn is fully aware of where he is, however, he shifts back slightly. It’s sudden enough, though – his gaze flicking to Harry – for Harry to let his hand drop, defeated.

“Sorry,” Harry apologises, though he’s not entirely sure whether it’s for now or for earlier – or maybe even forever.

“What’re you doing here?” Zayn rasps out, his bed hair adding to his perplexed look. He pulls back a little more, and Harry’s eyes slide down his face to his chest, wanting to touch and ask but not knowing how, anymore.

“It’s been ages,” explains Harry, thinking of the last time Zayn circled his arms around him, rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder as they both fell asleep. Harry just wants a few moments, that’s all – something he can think about when they go another couple of months without saying much. It’s like he needs one more line, and then he’ll stop – he’ll stop going to the parties and he’ll stop saying _Why not?_

 _Just one more time,_ Harry thinks to himself. _One more._

“Now?” Zayn mutters, his frown deepening. He sighs quietly, lifting a thin hand to run over his face roughly. Harry just stares at him, afraid of saying anything that’ll mean Zayn says no, says Harry can’t stay.

His shoulder itches, the _Can I stay?_ inked into his skin feeling strange and unwanted.

Zayn turns around, and Harry thinks he’s about to be asked to be the big spoon – he’ll take it, honestly; he’ll take anything – and then Zayn’s rummaging around for something before he turns back, and Harry’s eyes dart down to what’s in his hand and he feels his chest turn icy, his face pale.

“What? No!” Harry tells him quickly, fiercely, almost rearing back with the force of his feelings. “ _No,_ what the fuck?”

Zayn’s fingers curl around the condom wrapper, and he raises his eyebrows in askance.

“I’m not–” Harry huffs, feeling his heart clench painfully. To think Zayn thought he wanted– God, it’s like an axe to the torso. Like someone reached into Harry’s chest and pulled out his heart and just took a bite straight out. Harry thinks of Daenerys, and wonders whether Zayn’s thinking of her, too. Horse’s blood dripping down her face, heart in her hands as she tries to keep it all down. Harry feels nauseous as well, but it’s not because of the image his brain’s supplied.

The silence is thick, and the room feels stifling despite the cold. Zayn’s looking at him expectantly and Harry blinks rapidly, trying not to cry. His eyes are stinging, but he manages to swallow it back.

“I just wanted to cuddle,” he admits softly, meekly, and Zayn’s eyebrows drop down until he doesn’t look like he’s thinking anything at all.

“Can’t sleep or something?” Zayn asks, throwing the condom away and lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with sleepy eyes.

“Or something,” Harry murmurs, feeling self-conscious about his need for affection, about wanting to be next to Zayn and touch him without it leading to anything. Maybe it’s not like that for Zayn, not anymore. Harry shakes his head a little, not wanting to think about it.

Zayn sighs quietly once more, and Harry takes the break in the silence to lie on his back as well, moving his right hand down to circle Zayn’s bony wrist. There’s a stagnant moment, where Zayn could pull away or simply do nothing – but he doesn’t. Harry’s heart is back in his chest – floating even – when Zayn shifts to entwine their hands. Harry sees him close his eyes, and he follows suit. It’ll be alright, he thinks with an unnatural calm; if Zayn is next to him, it’ll be okay.

He ignores the fact that although they’re side by side, hands tangled – in actuality, they couldn’t be further apart. Harry ignores it because he’s in his bubble, and his bubble lets him have this.

 

***

 

**May, 2017**

 

“Oi, are you listening?” Louis snaps through the phone, his voice tinny and far away. Harry startles, almost dropping his mobile onto his laptop. The hotel bed creaks a bit.

“Yeah, yes, sorry,” He apologises, eyes roving over his screen. He misses his long hair, and the way he could fiddle with it and avoid a question in the same breath. He misses being able to answer a question and say nothing at all. He knows the fans joke about it, but it’s a skill he’s going to have to steal back in spades if he’s to survive the promo season coming up. He doesn’t know how the hell he’s going to answer to some of the lyrics on the album.

“What are you doing, anyway?” asks Louis, and Harry can hear baby babble over the phone. He doesn’t mention it, but he’s glad for his friend.

“Nothing,” Harry tells him, but he winces as soon as it’s out of his mouth – it was too quick, too casual. Louis’ bound to know he’s doing something he shouldn’t.

“Styles,” He starts, and Harry cringes back into his pillows, “what are you not telling me?”

“It’s not a big deal, alright? It’s just some, like, videos or summat.”

The silence over the line is broken only by a baby’s happy cry, and Harry suddenly wishes he was there to play with Freddie, to distract Louis from this entire conversation like his fans always joke about.

“You’re a fuckwit,” Louis spits out, and the baby sounds trail off, “You know that?”

“Language.” Harry warns weakly, feeling exhausted in a second. Louis has always had the habit of being incredibly adept at both gifting Harry with energy, and zapping it away in the time it takes Harry’s heart to beat once.

“Oh, shove off,” he snaps again, and Harry can hear Louis mutter something to someone, and then there’s the click of a door and quiet on the other line.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologises, for the sole reason that he doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re not sorry, you wanker,” Louis tells him, “You’ve just got no clue what to say. You’re a fucking piece of work, I tell ya,” Louis sighs, then, long and low. “Have at it, then.”

“What?” Harry asks, leaving off the ‘t’. He frowns, wondering what Louis is getting at.

“Tell me what the fuck you’re watching, then.”

“Oh,” Harry intonates slowly. It seemed so much easier to hint at it than to say exactly what he was looking at. It also seemed easier to watch it all on mute whilst talking to Louis, than to give up on reading lips and just listen to himself.

He presses the space bar, and the video starts up again.

_“– tension in ‘ere with a knife.”_

_“Well, they’re just questions–”_

_“Let’s make some jokes!”_

He taps the bar again, and the video pauses.

“Oh, H,” Louis groans, and Harry wonders whether he remembers laughing when Ellen asked Liam whether he was lying about having spoken to Zayn. Harry can barely remember what he’d thought back then on that couch – just remembered trying to smile the whole damn time, trying to act as if Zayn leaving was a prank they were all pulling on the world. Louis was their spokesperson, because the one time Harry had attempted to talk about Zayn during media training, he’d pretty much choked on his own tongue. “Why’re you torturing yourself with that rubbish?”

“Ellen’s not rubbish,” defends Harry.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying, you daft dickhead.” Louis scolds, and Harry sighs silently, rubbing out the seemingly permanent creases on his forehead. He clicks through to another interview, and he knows exactly where this one starts off on him, because he felt like the only way he was getting through the whole thing was by counting the seconds until it was over.

_“ – one minute he was with ya, and the next minute it seemed like he was gonna go and then he was gone very quickly. So, uhm, who wants to answer this one? Wh-what happened there? What went on? And, and, who, who amongst you was aware beforehand that he was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and wanted to leave the band?”_

He sees himself inhale – knows it comes off as humourous, over the top, and realises maybe the casting director for _Dunkirk_ only needed to see this bloody video to know he could act. _Jesus._

“You wanna answer this one, Michael?” he says on screen, and Louis swears over the phone.

“I bloody hated that interview,” says Louis, and he sounds frustrated, “In hindsight, McIntyre was having a killer of a night. But I just wanted to smack him.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, watching the way Michael’s trying to explain Zayn’s departure, “I know.”

_“Who was the closest to him in the band? And maybe still is?”_

“I was so fucking obvious,” Harry mutters, watching his face change as the question’s asked, watching it go stony when Louis answers.

“Turn it off. Fucken Christ, Harry.” Louis hisses, and Harry pauses it on Louis’ face; serious, considering. “And you weren’t obvious. Don’t you think if you were obvious, people would’ve been asking you the kind of questions they were asking me?”

Harry exhales shakily. “I’m sorry, Lou,” he apologises, a wave of guilt rushing through him. Harry wasn’t the only one hurting, and he left it all to Louis to deal with because he wasn’t thinking about anything or anyone but himself.

“Ah, shut it,” Louis tells him, and Harry wipes a shaking hand over his own face, still staring at the screen, “No one expected you to say shit, don’t worry about it.”

“You’ve got to stop letting me off so easily,” Harry begs him, pushing through the tremor in his voice, “You keep doing it.”

“Do you honestly think you deserve to be held accountable for the fact that Zayn left you?” Louis asks incredulously, not seeing Harry flinch in his bed at the last two words. “You must be dumber than you look – if that were possible – because the only person who’s responsible for what happened is Zayn.”

“Lou,” Harry starts, tired.

“He could’ve said something,” His friend rushes to say, “He didn’t have to suffer in silence. We were his friends. You were his boyfriend. You’d think he could’ve said one _word_ about what was going on in his head.”

“We– we weren’t–”

“Harry.” Louis interrupts him, long-suffering and exasperated. He doesn’t continue, though, and Harry clicks through until he finds what he’s looking for.

_“–miss them or whatever, like that, erm... but, you know, it kind of, it didn’t really–”_

_“The paperwork was the hardest part.”_

“What are you watching, a compilation?” Louis scoffs, and Harry pauses this video and ends up just shutting his laptop altogether. “This is just pure masochism.”

“Think of how that looked to him,” Harry explains, tone reedy and uncomfortable, and he falls back against his pillows, phone still held up to his ear, “He didn’t know I could barely speak a word. And then every time I did, it was to be rude... and condescending.”

“He was your ex,” Louis starts, but Harry cuts across him.

“He wasn’t.” He brings his right hand up to pull at his mouth, wincing at the sting of his chapped lower lip. “He really wasn’t.”

“Whatever, mate,” Louis scoffs again, obviously not convinced, “You can think that, but I’ve not forgiven Zayn and I don’t plan to anytime soon.”

By the time they say goodbye a half hour later, Harry doesn’t feel any better. It used to be that his phone calls with Louis were helpful, felt commiserating. Now he just feels old and tired and worn down.

He’s staring at the phone by his side for a solid ten minutes before he does anything.

The e-mail’s harder to find than he initially thought, but he manages it well enough and types in the address he knows by heart, just like he knows the mobile number off the top of his head. These things were buried so deep, and then that bloody Radio 1 game dug them right up for everyone to prod and poke at, Harry included.

He types in the e-mail address, and forwards on the message with no commentary. Some things are better left unsaid, even if that’s what nearly killed them in the first place.

You’ve been invited to the iHeartRadio album release party of  
**_‘HARRY STYLES’_ ** **BY HARRY STYLES**

12:30pm on May 8th at  
Rough Trade on North 9th Street, Brooklyn, NY, USA

This e-mail is valid for one entry.  
Please bring ID to show at the door. Your name will be listed.

 

***

 

**March, 2015**

 

It’s almost laughable. If Harry hadn’t decided to forego the bar, to come back to the hotel early and maybe see if Zayn’s face might show some emotion if Harry asked to spend that time with him – if not for all of that, he wouldn’t have known. He’d be out in some dingy club, twirling his rings and wishing Zayn was there, but then getting distracted by Niall’s boisterous laugh, Liam’s sloppy cheek kisses, and Louis’ wandering hands on their booth’s guests. He’d go out onto the dance floor and swing his hips to the latest Ariana Grande without an inkling as to what Zayn was doing back at the hotel.

He’s furious, though. Because he didn’t do any of those things – and instead, he got to the hotel and found Zayn calmly packing away his clothes into his duffle. He’d even smiled at first, a little confused, and asked Zayn what he was doing.

 _Leaving_ had never been a possibility. It’d never even been a _thought._

Harry laughs, though – and maybe it _is_ laughable – and just asks again. “Come on, what’re you doing, babe?”

Zayn flinches the tiniest bit – not enough for Harry to really notice, but enough for the room to feel hot in a flash, to become something uncomfortable and foreign. Nothing like the hotel rooms Harry’s familiar with across the world.

“Leaving,” Zayn answers, short and to the point, “I’ll see you when I see you.”

And that’s when the fury comes, his blood bubbling through his veins and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He’s almost left panting by the time he realises what he’s feeling, so overcome with the force of it. _I’ll see you when I see you._

“What do you mean ‘you’re leaving’?” He gets out, oxygen deprived, “You can’t leave.”

“Harry,” Zayn starts tiredly, brushing a hand over his face like they’ve been discussing this the whole tour – not like he was fine yesterday, Harry’s face pushed into his neck, words muttered into his shoulder that Harry feels too shy to repeat in the daylight.

“ _No,_ ” Harry interrupts, stomach flipping in unease, the anger making his voice tremble, “Zayn. You can’t. The band– we always said–”

“I’ve got to take care of myself, alright?” Zayn cuts across, shoulders hunched and hands jittery at his sides, his chest heaving with every breath, “And it’s not here. It can’t be here.”

“ _What the fuck do you mean?_ ” demands Harry, dark and upset, his thoughts ricocheting off of his skull like Zayn’s firing bullets every which way. “You’re fine! _It’s fine._ ”

Zayn doesn’t bother to reply, shaking his fringe out of his eyes as he turns back to his bag, packing it like he’s not going to come back, like they’re all not boomerangs tied to each other, swinging around to return home. His face looks apathetic, like he doesn’t care at all what this is doing to Harry– to the band. What Harry’s been trying to avoid _this whole fucking time._

“If this is about us–” Harry begins, his heart racing in his chest at the thought of calling everything off. But it’s the band – and Harry’s always known, somehow, in some way, that it would come first one of these days. He’s known that he and Zayn would have to call _them_ quits just to keep it going.

“It’s got nothing to do with us.” Zayn mutters, not turning around. Harry’s heart won’t quit, won’t stop fluttering like a hummingbird in the dark of this bland hotel room – because it’s plain, it’s boring, and it hits Harry like a sledgehammer that the only thing that’s ever made these places shine like they’re supposed to is _Zayn._ His sleepy eyes squinting at Harry over the breakfast buffet; his cold feet nudging up against Harry’s during the night; his dark eyes glittering in mirth as the two of them laugh and joke around, the glare of the clock reading _4:51_ nothing to worry about when all Harry can see, hear, and feel is Zayn fucking Malik.

“It’s fine, Zayn,” Harry urges, the anger leaving him and desperation swooping in as he strides forward to grasp at Zayn’s elbow, turning him around so they’re barely a foot apart. His small frame seems fragile and uncertain in this moment – not like the man Harry lets tie him to the headboard, or the man who once fucked Harry so hard over a desk he felt like everyone could see his slight limp for days. This isn’t a Zayn that Harry knows, and that’s scary. It’s fucking frightening, actually – because if this Zayn isn’t familiar to Harry, then he’s not familiar to anyone. “Come on, think about this.”

“I _have_ thought about it,” Zayn spits out, and suddenly the tiredness is gone from his stance, his eyes fiery, “It’s all I’ve thought about for months. None of your assurances are goin’ to work, alright? I’ve made my decision, and I reckon you better let me leave.”

“I’m not–” Harry inhales sharply at Zayn’s glare, something he’s never seriously been on the receiving end of, at least not for years, “I can’t keep you here.” Harry reluctantly admits, hands trembling. He’s never kept Zayn anywhere, never been enough to centre him, to keep him happy. He squeezes Zayn’s elbow, begging him for _something,_ even if it’s not the only thing Harry’s ever wanted from Zayn. “I know that.”

Their eyes catch, and all Harry sees is frustration, and exhaustion, and maybe a little bit of resentment, and it steals his breath away in the worst fashion.

 _He’s not coming back,_ Harry fully realises, horrified, as Zayn pulls his elbow out of Harry’s grasp, _He’s going. He’s already gone._

There’s a ringing in Harry’s ears, consuming him and making his blood sing. It hurts, but not enough to move, to change, to fix it. Harry rather feels he ought to hurt, maybe. Like this is what was coming to him all along – punishment for his decisions, for the mistake he made that night back in 2013, drunk on the future and the possibility of having everything.

“I wish I wanted to stay,” Zayn says to the silent room, bag fully packed and slung over his shoulder as he looks at Harry, who remains unmoved until he turns his head, catches Zayn’s eyes over his own shoulder. “But I don’t love this band anymore, Harry,” The words slice into him, over and over as they echo silently in his head, “Not like you do.”

And with that he goes, leaving nothing in his wake except Harry, who begins to suspect that he might have imagined the whole thing – imagined yesterday, Zayn holding him close; imagined the past few years, laughing into each other’s mouths; imagined just now, Zayn telling Harry he doesn’t love him anymore.

Because that’s what it was. Harry’s not an idiot, he’s pretty good at figuring out how people feel. Zayn’s always been difficult, but Harry’s fluent enough now after all these years.

Zayn may not love the band anymore, but that’s not why he’s leaving, is it? He’s leaving because he doesn’t love _Harry_ anymore and he knows – _God, does he know,_ Harry thinks desperately – that Harry won’t ever stop loving him. He didn’t stop loving Zayn when he got fake engaged to Perrie Edwards, so he’s hardly going to stop loving him if he leaves the band.

It’s probably hard, Harry realises, to have someone be in love with you when you can’t return their feelings. The band wasn’t enough to keep him with Harry anymore, so now he’s gone.

All Harry wants to do is run after him; and if he can’t do that, he just wants to scream and shout and smash up this hotel room because it’s ugly, and it’s a representation of everything that’s fucking wrong with his life and it drove Zayn away because Harry wasn’t enough, he just _wasn’t–_ all Harry wants to do is ruin everything like Zayn ruined him. He can’t, though.

Instead, Harry gets as far as the hallway, Zayn’s door closed behind him.

He gets that far, and then he sits on the floor and cries.

 

***

 

**May, 2017**

 

Performing these songs for the first time in front of an audience is worse than Harry imagined. Maybe he should’ve thought it through. Maybe all those times he said he was being honest, that he was laying himself bare, with this album – he probably should have listened to himself, taken his own advice.

 _Meet Me In The Hallway_ is never fun. Harry wouldn’t describe it as a particularly invigorating song. It’s all about mistakes and regret and hoping for improvement – and it feels even more poignant given the last month that Harry’s spent reminiscing upon his feelings, thinking about how he had it all wrong this whole time.

He’s thankful Zayn didn’t come – him seeing Harry cry silently to the first song is a touch too vulnerable, even by Harry’s standards. Him seeing Harry cry to _From The Dining Table?_ Also a touch too vulnerable. Harry’s beginning to wonder why he even put out this album at all.

He realises, then, that talking to Zayn about any of this would be more difficult than he ever thought. If singing obscure lyrics that only he understands to a room of strangers was hard, how is he going to cope talking explicitly to him about it?

He doesn’t have enough time to ponder, however – the album’s out in a matter of days, and he spends his time filming skits for _Late Late_ and doing last minute promo. The BBC show on the morning of is only the slightest bit awkward – aided by Harry’s first tea of the day, and Nick’s sincere apology.

“Hey, look,” he says, and for the first time since Harry’s known him he seems noticeably uncomfortable, “I’m sorry about– I’m sorry about it.” His eyebrows twitch, like it’s taking everything in him to remain civil about the subject of conversation. “Truly.”

Harry eyes him, ignoring the chatter around them as they prep the show to let Nick suffer a moment.

“Whatever you do,” starts Harry, and he sees Nick’s face clear, relief palpable, “Don’t talk about _Two Ghosts._ ”

“Right.” Nick seems to agree, giving Harry a serious nod.

And so, of course, he proceeds to do just that.

 

***

 

**January, 2012**

 

“Alright?” asks Zayn, pushing his shoulder into Harry’s gently.

“Yeah,” Harry answers, shooting Zayn a quick smile before hiding his face in his drink. He can’t take his eyes off of her, and he hopes Zayn won’t notice.

He does, though – Harry needs to give him more credit, he’s too perceptive for his own good – and he slowly turns back to Harry, eyebrows raised.

“Doesn’t mean anything, yeah?” He clarifies, bringing his left arm up to put over Harry’s shoulders. Seems silly that he should be comforting Harry on his own birthday, but Harry can’t help the way he’s feeling – childish, tossed aside. Alone.

“You’re dating her.” Harry points out, and he holds back a wince at the way it comes out. He needs to get better at hiding his feelings. Heart on his sleeve, he has.

 _That’d be a good tattoo,_ he thinks absently.

“Not for real, numbnuts.” He laughs, and Harry’s smile becomes genuine, something he doesn’t have to fake.

“I know, but like,” He licks his lips of his sticky drink, eyes following Zayn as he looks around the room, “You still don’t like her?”

“You’re an idiot.” He states, leaving off the ‘t’. He pushes his lips into Harry’s temple, pulling away with an exaggerated sound before something across the room catches his eye.

“Leeyum!” He yells, and then he’s gone. Harry’s shoulders feel cold, but his chest is warm.

“Right,” he says to himself, smiling, “Time to find Louis.”

 

***

 

**May to June, 2017**

 

“You’ve got this,” Jeff says, holding Harry by the shoulders as the roadies scurry around them. “You’ve played to larger crowds before.” Harry shoots him a dirty look. “Right, right, okay – you weren’t alone then. But you won’t be alone now, either. You’ve got your band, you’ve got me on the sidelines. You’ll be swell, H.”

“Just,” Harry starts, closing his eyes and shoving Jeff’s hands off his shoulders as gently as he can, “please go away.”

He throws up just the once, heaving into the toilet backstage. He ignores the worried calls of his name outside, leaning his sweaty forehead against the cubicle wall. Zayn would raise an eyebrow at him, tell him to clean his teeth and take a shower – or maybe just not show up at all.

Harry huffs out a laugh, swinging his head around to stare at the door.

 _WE <3 THE GARAGE! _ someone’s written in red marker.

Harry swallows, closing his eyes as outside gets louder and louder and louder.

He runs his hands through his hair, washes his mouth out with some water, and then some Gatorade he nicks from the dressing room. Then he sculls a glass of white wine, a celebration, before he steps on stage.

He doesn’t think about the first few songs, too consumed with getting it right and not embarrassing himself in front of all of these people who came to see his first show, this tiny little thing. It means the world to him, and he knows it means the world to some of them, too.

But when he reaches the cover, he can’t keep thinking of his hand on the fret or the placement of his microphone.

“We’re on that ultralight beam, ultralight beam! This is everything...” He croons, “Foot on the Devil's neck! Moving my family to Zambia... my daughter looks just like Sia, you can't see her!”

He doesn’t smile to himself at the next line, but it’s a near thing. “I'm just having fun with this!”

The guitar distracts him, at least. “You know I’ve been feeling so lost... I laugh in my head, ‘cause I bet that my ex looking back like a pillar of salt, well now we,” he inhales, “on that ultralight beam, we on that ultralight beam, baby. This is everything, oh!”

The screams embolden him, and he pushes through to the end, “We on that ultralight beam, ultralight beam! This is everything, hey... I’m just having fun with this. You know I’ve been feeling so lost...” A deeper inhale now, and thoughts that creep in, unwanted. “I laugh in my head ‘cause I bet that my ex looking back like a pillar of salt, and now we on that ultralight beam, ultralight beam, baby! This is everyth–”

He cuts himself off, letting the instruments take over, letting himself ruminate on it.

_“Zayn and I–” Liam stops abruptly, looking guilty. Harry keeps his pleasant smile on his face, knuckles white as they grip the couch beneath him._

_“Yeah?” Harry prompts._

_“We, err, were listening to the new Kanye album,” Liam explains, “Ultralight Beam, you heard it?” He relaxes a tad, enough to slip up a bit, “Was Z–_ our _favourite.” He smiles, a tiny bit shaky in the face of this conversation. “You should give it a listen.”_

_“Might do,” Harry says blandly._

_But when he gets home he listens to it on repeat, fighting the ache in his chest._ You don’t exist, _he tells it,_ what would you even exist for?

The song is the kind of thing Harry’d put on the setlist as a joke, really. When he first thought of touring, way back before that bloody Call or Delete segment. He’d been feeling particularly petty, and he knew Zayn wasn’t touring, and he thought – why not? Zayn couldn’t have everything, so Harry could have this.

He wants to laugh into his microphone, let the audience in on the joke – ‘Isn’t it funny?’ He’d say, ‘I forgot I was in love with Zayn, and I put one of his favourite songs on my setlist to make him angry. Isn’t that just a _riot?_ ’

He’d looked up the lyrics in preparation, sat staring at his phone for about half an hour, wondering why _this_ was Zayn’s favourite. A song about God, a song about isolating the poison from your life and letting God rid you of it.

If he was braver, he could wonder about why Zayn connects so intimately with a song about faith. If he’d been a better person, he might’ve said more about the slurs Zayn faced all the time, might’ve done more than try to get Zayn to forget about them, to be a distraction. If he’d been braver, he’d wonder whether he ever actually took the time to learn more about Zayn’s faith, past _Eid_ and the Koran; past him not celebrating Christmas but buying them all gifts, anyway.

But Harry’s not brave. And this song was never about faith for him, even after he read those lyrics. He’d heard _I laugh in my head ‘cause I bet that my ex looking back like a pillar of salt_ and he’d wanted to laugh, he’d wanted to sink down onto the floor and laugh it all away. Then he’d heard _for everyone that feels they've said ‘I'm sorry’ too many times_ and he’d thrown his phone against the wall, furious, because Zayn had never said sorry. How the fuck could he relate to that when he’d never apologised to any of them?

But Harry realises he’s part of the poison Zayn tried to get rid of – succeeded in extracting from his life. In a fit of childish rage, Harry wants to rip off his own necklace, burn the cross etched in ink from his body.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t think that way anymore. The song’s not about taking away the poison, he knows. It’s about embracing it, and knowing – just having faith – that your worship, your love for God will render it useless. God completes you.

In the poorest imitation of worship, Harry sees completeness in Zayn. He’ll be torn asunder, he’ll be stretched thin, he’ll be close to becoming nothing and then Zayn – it doesn’t matter if he was the one who broke Harry down, because Harry is in love with him. Harry can’t remember when he wasn’t in love with him. It’s years later, after eons of pain and hurt and separation, and _Harry is in love with Zayn._

Harry is in love with Zayn. Until he dies – wrinkly and decrepit, crying from his hospital bed to his coffin – Harry will be in love with him, poison and all.

It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it fucking matters anymore.

 

***

 

 _Mind of Mine_ finishes on the bonus track _Golden_ with Harry lying in shorts by the pool in Cabo, chest ripped wide open and heart stuck in his throat. It’s then that Harry decides it’s time – time to make the effort, to reach out first. His phone might be missing Zayn’s call, but _Harry_ never called and said he was sorry first. He’s realising that’s what it’ll take, and it’s what Zayn deserves.

But it’ll take more than a call. He has to do this _properly._ The last time Harry called Zayn, Zayn hung up on him. Harry can’t let him do that; he can’t even give him the opportunity.

 _I need to see you,_ he sends a week later from his L.A. residence. His hands are shaking, the unanswered texts glaring back at him, green with all that poison.

He gets no reply, but it’s half what he was expecting, anyway. Zayn’s not been replying, why would he want to see Harry face to face?

June hits, and Harry goes to a wedding in Hawaii. He wears white, chuckling to himself, and catches the bouquet. Nick laughs at him, but it’s a little stiff around the edges; like he knows the texts that lie in Harry’s phone, like he knows what Harry wants to do.

Harry has some champagne, then a little more – then a lot more, and his phone’s always been grounding in places where he knows only a few people, so he’s ringing up someone before he can think.

“Haz?” Niall answers, and Harry lights up.

“Niall!” he slurs, lifting his glass up like they’re toasting. “Nialler! Good morrow!”

“What the fuck?” laughs Niall, and Harry can see his perplexed expression, eyes wide. “What did you take, you nutter?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Harry mumbles, sculling the last of his drink and depositing it on an empty table. The dance floor seems full, and Harry thinks about jumping in there until Niall speaks up.

“Why’re you ringing me, Haz? You’re plastered.”

“No,” Harry drawls out in denial, feeling loose and easy.

“Yeah,” Niall replies in the same fashion, laughing again.

Harry hums into the phone, peering around a plant to see if he can sneak a drink from another table.

“Isn’t Grimshaw supposed to be with you?” Niall sounds like he’s frowning, and Harry frowns right back. “What’s that idiot doing, letting you go off by yourself?”

“I’m an adult, Niall.” Harry retorts defensively, though it sounds more confused than anything, he realises. “I’m in love and everything.”

“Oh, Christ,” Niall mutters, and Harry hears some bangs over the phone before Niall’s voice gets clearer. “Did you call me to talk about Zayn? Because I’m not really qualified for this.”

“No,” Harry says, but there’s an awkward few seconds of silence.

“Sure,” Niall answers, “Let’s say I buy that, mate. Let’s talk about Zayn, anyway.”

“Do you think, like,” Harry licks his lips, lifting up a glass with nothing in it, disappointment resonating through him as he puts it back onto another empty table, exclamations of joy coming from the dance floor with the beginning of a new song, “he’s in love with me?”

“Fucking hell,” Niall groans through the line, and someone bumps into Harry, making him stumble into a wall somewhere, wherever he is, “Get your fucking shit together. Fucking hell, mate.”

“Niall,” Harry says, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.

“Talk to him, ya cunt,” Niall says, and if it were anyone but Niall, Harry might say he sounds angry, “Because I’m sick of trying to get either of you to see _reason._ ”

“You spoke to him?” Harry manages to extract. Niall makes a muffled, exasperated noise.

“Good _night,_ Harry.”

Harry pulls the phone away from his ear. He stares at the bride and groom laughing into each other’s shoulders with a frown on his face, wondering why everything feels so far away.

 

***

 

**March, 2013 & June, 2013**

 

It begins earlier than it ever starts.

“I feel awful,” He frowns down at his phone, the swear words screaming at him from his Messages app, “I don’t really blame her, but it’s like – how else am I meant to live?”

“Why don’t you go off and buy a farm?” Louis suggests through a mouthful of Pringles, shoving his slender hand back into the container for more, “Y’know, be proper domestic. Live off the land and all that.”

“And I’ll be left alone,” Harry starts, his frustration creeping into his tone. He pauses, inhales deeply. This isn’t Louis’ fault, even if he’s not exactly offering up sound advice, “just like that?”

“I never said it’d be fool proof, did I?” Louis rolls his eyes, munching on his crisps, “But right now any girl you stick your prick into gets scared off by the slightest hint of a crazed fan stalking her on social media. S’not rocket science.” Harry looks at Louis, frowning. His friend rolls his eyes again, sitting up to deposit his nearly empty Pringles cylinder on the floor of the tour bus, and wiping at his mouth slowly. “Just don’t date.”

“That’s not really fair,” is Harry’s first reaction, and Louis holds his arms up, palms out, and huffs. “Niall manages it, why’s it so hard for me?”

“Because people think you and I are gonna get married, you fuckwit,” Louis grumbles, “And they’re so focused on us that Nialler can do whatever and it’s _fine._ ” His blue eyes suddenly spark, his posture straightening as a teasing grin breaks out onto his face. “Maybe you and I can pretend to date. That’d sort it right out.”

“Are you mental, Lou?” Harry shakes his head, laughing, “That’d just make things worse.”

“Well, at least your prospective dates would never be ‘dates’ in the eyes of our beloved Directioners, mate,” Louis tells him, eyebrows raised, “These days, the only people we can be around without someone shouting insults are the boys and the crew.” He snorts, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “Take your pick, Curly.”

The bus is silent save for the engines, a soft hum that’s become familiar to Harry over the years. He’s taken more to hotels for the comfort factor, but there’s something that still gets his blood going about being on a tour bus – that years-old optimism, the excitement that he’s living out his dream. Louis gets it – he’ll always sleep on a tour bus if he can, Harry knows. But they’re home to him, when they’ve never been anything but temporary for Harry. All he wants is to find his home away from home, as corny as it sounds. He just wants to find the constant – he wants to have that person he can talk to every day, that person he can look forward to seeing. He wants them just for him and no one else. He’s a little selfish like that – but isn’t love always a little selfish?

“Just, like,” Louis’ accent is thicker suddenly, and Harry looks up from his twisting fingers to see him squinting thoughtfully at him, “find someone you know. Who you hang out with already.”

“Stop asking me out, Louis,” Harry jokes lightly, “I told you, I won’t be your experiment.”

“Oh, shove off, you wanker,” Louis scowls, “I wasn’t talking about me, Christ sake.” He scratches at his jaw, heaving out a breath and then seemingly biting the bullet. “You still got that crush on Zayn?”

“What?” Harry splutters, finding himself laughing, fighting for breath. After a solid minute he manages something more coherent. “Crush on Zayn? What are you on about?”

“Are you really this stupid? Christ,” Louis drops his head into his hands, the rest of his sentence muffled, “I forget none of you got your A-levels.”

“Hey,” Harry protests, feeling the line between his brows deepen. It’s not his fault he was whisked off on a national tour, then to record an album, then–

“Harry,” Louis cuts through his thoughts, and he’s staring straight at him now, serious and with no hint of a tease on his usually bright face, “You told me you’d snog Zayn if you had the chance.”

“That was years ago,” Harry says weakly, trying not to remember that he might’ve thought the same thing a week or two prior when he ran into Zayn backstage – a Zayn who’d been biting his lips red raw in nerves before the show.

“Right,” Louis agrees, barrelling on, “but you always talk about how fit he is in interviews, and how he’s so smart, and then the two of you fuck off at night and come to breakfast the next morning looking like death twice over–”

“Mate–” Harry interrupts, tone offended.

“and you expect me to believe you’ve got nothing but completely platonic feelings for Zayn?” finishes Louis, and he looks way too smug for Harry to feel like he’s won at all, no matter how much he’s convinced himself that anyone would look at Zayn for as long as they could – he’s a masterpiece, isn’t he? Harry knows, has always known ever since they locked eyes for the first time and Zayn gave Harry that shy smile. Harry’s known since Zayn told him he was weird, and Harry only felt the tiniest stirrings of hurt. Zayn’s sort of beautiful, and Louis would be stupid to think that acknowledging that means Harry _fancies_ him or something.

“Harry, you have trouble committing to a coffee order, let alone any kind of standing invitation with someone. You’re like a goldfish.”

“Fuck off,” Harry scowls, letting the hurt slide over and off him, that emotional barrier he’s managed to invent working perfectly, “It’s not like I’ve got a three second memory.”

“You’re missing the point!” Louis suddenly exclaims, flinging about his arms. His vest gapes a bit, and there’s a flash of a nipple that leads Harry down dark paths he tries not to follow, because Louis is his mate and it’s better that Harry try not to come onto any of his fellow band members. _Christ, you’ve got it bad,_ he thinks to himself, _how long’s it been since you spent the night with someone?_ “The _point,_ ” Louis stresses, bringing Harry back into the conversation with a hard look, “is that you should talk to Zayn, and maybe the two of you can... well, you work it out.”

“You’re mental,” Harry announces, ignoring the flutter in his chest and his clammy palms, “Zayn’s my friend, and besides – that doesn’t solve anything. I’m still not going to be able to date anyone, even if, like,” He does something with his hands, twisting and turning them in front of him in the appropriation of whatever jumbled thoughts are stuck in his throat. Louis narrows his eyes, seeming to understand.

“Aren’t you?” Louis prods, before picking his Pringles back up and leaning back to rest the heels of his feet on the coffee table, grabbing the remote to flip on the telly like that’s the end of their conversation.

Harry frowns, refusing to think about it. He’ll just keep doing what he’s always been doing – going out, hoping to meet that special someone and then breaking the news to them that they’re likely to be verbally abused on social media. It’ll be fine, someone will deal with it eventually. It just narrows his dating pool a bit. Zayn isn’t an option, even if he smiles sleepily at Harry from their shared bed that evening, having put lights out early. Harry avoids his eyes, turns his back as he strips to his boxer briefs – refusing to go naked like normal in the face of Louis’ accusations – and steadfastly ignores how easy it would be to lean in and meet Zayn’s mouth. He won’t think about it.

Naturally, he thinks about it constantly. How can he not? Zayn is around him all the time, it feels like. Harry’s getting lost in his eyelashes, staring at his cheekbones, his thin lips, his toned neck, his broad but scrawny shoulders... Harry’s accosted everywhere he goes, it seems.

It’s not until Ohio, months later, that he realises it’s more than a simple annoyance started by Louis Tomlinson. He has a problem.

He stands in front of Zayn – because who else would he stand in front of right now? Louis? That’s sure to give their fans conniptions. No. If not Louis, then Zayn – because Niall would just laugh, and Liam would shake his head in exasperation.

So, he stands in front of Zayn, screams around them, and their eyes lock for just a moment. Long enough for Harry to make that split-second decision and put on the candy thong, Zayn grinning at him at the complete and utter insanity of the whole ordeal.

He doesn’t hesitate when he strides forward, fighting the full-blown grin on his face until Zayn takes the waistband of the thong and bites, face scrunched up. Harry has to look away, laughs too hard for the moment, the screams drowning out the slight panic to it. He sees Zayn out of the corner of his eyes, sees the way he looks up at Harry quickly as he’s pulling away.

 _This is what you’d look like,_ Harry’s mind whispers to him, insidious, _on your knees for me._

He makes his way to Sandy in a bit of a daze, gets a denial, and then hides his face in the thong himself for some kind of relief, some kind of way to hide the flush in his cheeks, the threat of his dick swelling in his pants.

He occupies himself with the thong after that, Niall talking in the background and Louis shouting. He’s wiping the candy powder off of his jeans, thinking about how the fuck he’s going to deal with this absolute shit show when they get off stage – Louis’ teasing remarks, Liam’s muffled laughter...

He looks at Zayn again for a moment, preoccupied by his stark profile, the jut of his jaw as he speaks to Louis away from the microphones. He wipes away at his jeans again, and then the most reckless thought creeps into his head, like a virus waiting to strike.

“Maybe,” He’s leant forward now, Zayn’s head bowed toward the ground and Harry’s lips right up against his ear, “I’ll give you a show later.”

It’s a joke, he thinks as he pulls back. It’s definitely a joke. Zayn looks up, claps exaggeratedly like he’s applauding Harry for said show, and Harry doesn’t know what happens after that – because Zayn didn’t seem bothered, even by the joke of it all. And the idea of putting on a show for Zayn, of all people, has left Harry with goosebumps up and down his arms, the hair standing on end because they’re reacting to the phantom touch of Zayn, the glide of his palms over Harry’s body a dangerous thought.

“Really?” Louis shouts in his ear later as they finish, and Harry ignores him, pushing forward to grab another bottle of water and gulp it down.

“Good one, lads,” Zayn tells them. His palm whacks Harry between the shoulders and stays there, a hot and heavy weight that eclipses all thought.

“Haz?” He snaps his eyes to the source, and Zayn’s own peer at him, his hair wet at the temples and sticking up all over the place. He must’ve run his hands through it.

“Let’s go out,” Harry blurts, absently noting that the others have all congregated over by the food table, Liam laughing into Niall’s shoulder, “S’like, lots of energy or summat.”

“Alright,” agrees Zayn, leaving off the ‘t’ at the end like always. Harry repeats it to himself silently. “I’ll get the boys going, yeah?”

Harry’s protest dies on his lips as Zayn strides away – there’s not much he can say, after all, because he and Zayn don’t _go out_ together. They don’t do things alone unless it’s sleeping and speaking into the darkness of a room, an album playing through in the background. Zayn chills with Niall, smokes up with Louis, and goes out with Liam. Harry chills with Louis, golfs with Niall, and cooks with Liam. He goes out by himself, or with Nick. Not Zayn. Never Zayn. Once in a blue moon, maybe, back when they were younger – but Harry doesn’t think about that. Not when he was so drunk in Australia he almost tried to go to his knees in front of him, in line for the loo at some backpacker’s bar.

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles to himself, wiping at his dry lips as he shoves on some new skinny jeans and a long-sleeved black henley, his butterfly tattoo hidden away in a strange sort of irony, “I’ve got to get so twatted.”

He goes hard on the peppermint schnapps, buying the bar a whole lot and then taking about a quarter of them for himself. The rest of the lads are pacing themselves, though Liam has a few more to make Harry feel better.

“You’re sloshed,” announces Zayn from somewhere next to him, and since when was Zayn near him? Harry thinks he would’ve noticed – all he does is notice Zayn. “Ease up, babe.”

“No!” Harry answers petulantly, squinting at Zayn through his drunkenness. He’s wearing a red t-shirt that’s gaping at the collar, and Harry takes a swig of whatever is in his hand to stop himself from leaning forward to bite.

“Is this water?” he asks, because it doesn’t really taste like anything – well, it tastes like America, because all tap water tastes different and Harry likes America’s the least, he thinks; especially in comparison to London, which is clear and good and refreshing–

“No, it’s vodka,” says Louis, and Harry downs mouthfuls of it in one go, hoping against hope he won’t remember anything at all because Louis is smirking at him and Zayn’s got that amused quirk to his lips that Harry finds himself staring at.

He finds out it was indeed water later, when Niall is holding Liam up and Harry feels strangely present in the moment that his dear friend vomits into a pot plant.

“Oh no,” he says, and he slurs only slightly, “Liam’s going to be so disappointed.”

“Poor lad,” Louis says from opposite him, and Harry thinks the lights of the bar’s dancefloor look good on his angular face. He shakes his head, hair swinging wildly atop it. He thinks he might grow it out soon, really go for it. “I’ll cook him up a greasy tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t,” Zayn says, and Harry turns to look at him. He’s closer than Harry would ever allow normally, but he can’t seem to muster up the energy to move away. “You’ll wake him up loudly and poke at him all day. At least be honest with yourself, Lou.”

Louis shrugs, smiling as he takes a sip of his half-full pint. “I will when you are.”

“What’s he talking about?” Harry butts in, frowning. He goes to poke at Louis’ hand but finds himself stopped. Looking down, he sees his fingers entwined with another’s. “What’s this?”

“That’s our hands, babe,” Zayn says, and Harry looks up to see him glaring at Louis, “You’re a bit too drunk to be using yours at the moment.”

“Hey,” Harry protests weakly, but Zayn’s probably right. He picks up the glass of vodka in front of him, trying not to focus on the way Zayn’s squeezing his other hand.

He sobers up enough to peel his hand from Zayn’s a bit later, smiling at him tiredly and patting his forearm.

“Thanks, Zayn,” he says, and Zayn quirks an eyebrow, “You’re a mate.”

His dark brows furrow, and suddenly all Harry wants to do is make him laugh.

“Now that I’m sober,” Zayn snorts, and Harry pushes at his shoulder in retaliation, “I think we should foist Liam off on Louis. Serves him right, you know.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at Harry, searching his face for something. He seems appeased, because his expression clears, and he jerks his head in an appropriation of agreement.

“Take care of him!” Harry calls down the hallway a fair bit later, relishing in the curses Louis is spitting out as he and Zayn race to their room, laughing all the way.

“His face, Haz,” Zayn laughs, and he’s pulling Harry further into the room, kicking off his own shoes, “ _Allah,_ we’re so fucked tomorrow.”

“It’ll be fine,” Harry assures him, his skin buzzing with something unidentifiable. He can’t help but laugh again, plugging his phone into his speaker and pressing play absentmindedly, “Liam’ll look so pathetic, Lou will forget we had a hand in anything at all.”

Harry’s nearly about to strip his jeans off when Zayn speaks up, face contemplative.

“You like this?” He asks, and then he smiles, a little wryly, “Of course you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry starts, grinning, as _The lunatic is in the hall..._ plays out in the room, “Just what are you implying?”

“Nothing, you twat.” Zayn snaps without heat, rolling his eyes. Harry foregoes removing his pants to move forward, watching the way Zayn’s eyes track him from his hips to his face.

“And if there is no room upon the hill!” Harry exclaims, singing along, reaching out to tug at Zayn’s arms, “And if your head explodes with dark forebodings, too,” He pulls Zayn to him, close and breathing heavily, Zayn’s bright eyes fond around the edges, “I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.”

“You’re fucked.” Zayn laughs, eyes scrunching up. Harry laughs, too, because seeing Zayn like this is freeing, in a way. He’s laughing, snorting just a bit; and Harry can’t remember a time when Zayn was so uninhibited around him – when the things he said or did weren’t part of a role he was playing, or an exaggeration so people wouldn’t look too closely at what he was actually saying. He can’t remember when he felt so unaware of his own body, wondering where to put a hand or where to rest his gaze.

He’s sort of frozen in time, looking at Zayn. His fingers pull at him still, but suddenly his heart is stuck in his chest, and then his throat, and so he misses the next few lines, eyes searching Zayn’s soft expression.

“You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane,” he continues, a little croaky now – Zayn doesn’t notice; instead he’s pulling on Harry, now, and then they’re dancing. It’s a swing kind of dance – an amateur version of what Harry’s seen in those war time films – and Harry suddenly finds his left hand resting on Zayn’s shoulder, his right palm in Zayn’s. “You lock the door, and throw away the key,” Harry pushes a little closer, and Zayn has to look up at him through his soft fringe, reluctant smile on his lips, something fond that Harry won’t ever forget – not even when he’s back home in Cheshire with his family, trying to compartmentalise his life to keep it all sorted. He won’t forget then, even when it’s what he’s trained himself to do.

“There's someone in my head but it's not me,” finishes Zayn, and it’s awful and garbled and he laughs, giddy, at himself. Harry joins, feels his cheeks dimple, still staring at him.

Zayn spins Harry around suddenly. “And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear,” he croons, swinging them to and fro, his wiry frame seeming huge and all-encompassing to Harry in that moment, “You shout and no one seems to hear!”

“And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes–” Harry starts up again, grinning, pulling Zayn a little closer, watching him laugh through the next line with him, the two of them sounding terrible for people who sing for a living.

“I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon!”

Harry can’t catch his breath, laugh after laugh escaping from his throat as he and Zayn break apart, bending over in their mirth. They die down with the music, and then Harry’s straightening, feeling something go taught, like an invisible string between them so tight it could be plucked to make a sound. Zayn’s staring at him, smile fading, laugh echoing around the room despite the fact the music is all they can hear, _Eclipse_ starting up. Harry shifts closer, and then Zayn’s hands are on his hips, and Harry’s breath is mixing with Zayn’s.

The moment stretches on and on, their breaths between them. Zayn’s upper lip glistens, the remnants of their dancing, and Harry hears the absent _And all you create, and all you destroy,_ as he brings his right hand up to Zayn’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth in a strange sort of hypnosis. The hairs at the back of his neck tickle, a strand or two stuck against his sweaty cheekbone itch. Apart from the upper lip, Zayn looks impeccable, unflappable. His eyes flick between Harry’s, his lips slightly parted. Harry hears the music as if he’s underwater, but words become clearer – _and all that's to come_ – and suddenly he pushes forward, his lips softening as they meet Zayn’s. Something that he imagined as hot and heavy is tender, a barely there brush – Zayn’s still, but then his lips mould to Harry’s, and then Harry licks into him and Zayn’s fingers dig into Harry’s hips and Harry’s breath hitches.

_And everything under the sun is in tune._

The ridge of Zayn’s jaw feels soft in the heat of the room, the mugginess of what’s happening. Zayn feels both malleable and incredibly solid under Harry’s touch, like he could disappear at any moment, and yet... he’s all Harry can sense. For him to fade away feels impossible, like it would only happen in a nightmare.

Harry’s awake. He’s so very awake.

_But the sun is eclipsed by the moon..._

“Zayn,” Harry murmurs, but Zayn captures _his_ lips this time, and Harry can’t remember what he was about to say. The music’s stopped but for the faint thumping at the end of the album. The sounds of their mouths together silence anything else, though, and in seconds it’s just the two of them breathing, their clothes shifting and ruffling in the quiet of the hotel room. Harry remembers, suddenly, where they are – and then Zayn’s pulling him back by the hips until Harry lands on top of him on the bed.

He’s unusually quiet – normally he’d be rambling by now, compliments and praises tumbling from between his swollen lips; but this is anything but normal. Somehow, Zayn calms all of that noise. Instead, Harry shifts his head, kissing Zayn deeper than he remembers kissing anyone else, Zayn’s tongue making him shudder, the roof of his mouth feeling over-used and too sensitive. He feels like he’s sinking deep into Zayn, like metal dropping into the ocean; drowning, twirling around and around, whirling down to the ocean floor.

By the time they’re naked, Harry’s panting against the side of Zayn’s face, pressing desperate kisses there every time their hips rock against each other, their hard cocks brushing and making Zayn moan.

“This is mad.” Harry whispers against Zayn’s mouth, bringing his right hand up to frame the left side of Zayn’s face, to push into his hair, his thumb tracing an eyebrow. Zayn’s eyes are dark and hooded, and he lifts up to kiss Harry again instead of answering, their noses smashed together in the heat of it all.

They go on like that for several long minutes, the slide of their tongues putting Harry into an addictive sort of trance, where the brush of their lips together sends shivers up and down his spine.

“Have you got–?” Harry breathes into Zayn’s cheek. Zayn nods, his hand scratching at Harry’s hips before he lets him go. Harry almost topples off the bed in his haste, regaining his balance at the last second to crouch down in front of Zayn’s bag, unzipping the smallest compartment he can find and completing his search with a single-mindedness that surprises even him.

He kisses Zayn from beside the bed, pulling his rings off and sliding over him once more without parting lips. He breaks away to spread the lube over his fingers, and he lets Zayn push a hand through his hair, shuddering at the scratch of his jagged nails on his scalp, before he looks up at him.

“Go on,” Zayn croaks out, and he shifts enough to put a pillow at the base of his spine, “It’s fine.”

Harry’s only ever done this one time, but he can’t even remember it once he gets his fingers in Zayn. He’s squirming, lips red and swollen, and Harry thinks he’s never seen such a sight.

“You’re so hot, Zayn,” He blurts out, and Zayn’s eyes open to peer down at him, “Sorry, but it’s like– you are.”

Zayn lets his head fall back onto his pillow, and Harry thinks he’s chuckling as he says, “Thanks, Haz.”

Both of them are quiet as he works, scissoring his fingers and adding more when Zayn starts to pull on his dick, too wet for it to do much at all.

“Stop, stop,” Zayn gasps as Harry changes his angle, and then Harry’s sliding his fingers right out to grab at Zayn’s hips, noticing the lube he’s leaving behind in a weird kind of fascination. “Sorry, just– now, Haz.”

Harry moves up the bed, crushing their lips together as he lines up, condom on in the heat of Zayn getting fingered. It’d been a distraction from the sounds.

He pushes in, feeling the resistance but knowing to trust Zayn, to know he wouldn’t lie about being ready. Zayn shudders, his skinny but toned arms coming up to grab at Harry’s shoulders as he fully seats himself, panting.

“Yeah?” Harry prompts after a minute, and Zayn’s mouth twitches, as if amused, before he says anything.

“Yeah, fuck,” Zayn mutters, and he opens his heavily lashed eyes so he can kiss him hard and quick, “Go on, then.”

Harry moves his right hand from beside Zayn to under his thigh, pushing it up so he can fit his hips in at a better angle. One of Zayn’s arms drops to land on top of his, helping, before Harry starts moving.

The sensations are all-consuming – it’s been a while since Harry’s been in anyone, let alone a bloke – and Harry finds himself too close too quickly. He slows, hoping to find some control before Zayn notices.

“Thought you’d be bigger,” Zayn jokes, and Harry’s so shocked at the teasing that he splutters, thrusting especially hard and relishing in the way Zayn bites the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah, alright,” Harry replies, feeling a little smug, “Very funny.”

“I dunno,” Zayn says, breath expelled with every thrust, “All those stories...”

Harry frowns, slowing down again.

“You know–”

Zayn’s eyes snap open again, and he lets go of his own leg to put both palms on the sides of Harry’s face, bringing himself up to kiss him gently, lingering.

“I know,” He says, and the teasing notes of his voice have all disappeared, “I know, don’t worry.” They both pull back – far enough away to lock eyes – before Zayn continues, a little jerkily. “Sorry.”

Harry’s eyes dart between Zayn’s, watching the colours change behind the widened pupils; roving over his sharp cheekbones, his damp hair, the tattoos on his chest. They kiss slowly again, and Harry can’t think past the way they mould together, how _right_ Zayn feels around him, and how _easy_ this all is.

Then he’s thinking _I could do this forever,_ as Zayn tugs on Harry’s long hair, as Harry’s necklace smacks against his own chest with every thrust. Their lips part for only a second before he leans forward to kiss Zayn once more, capturing his bottom lip between his and nibbling, soft and tender. He hears Zayn’s breath hitch between the rustling of the covers and the slight creaks of the bed, the minutes passing as if he’s on fast-forward. It’s too much, and yet all Harry can think is _I could do this on and on and on and on–_

Maybe he said it out loud, because suddenly Zayn’s laughing breathlessly against Harry’s lips and Harry can’t help but rub his thumb against the crinkles by his eyes. He slows his hips, smiling gently back.

“You’re insatiable.” Zayn remarks, and Harry would make a cheeky comment about how Zayn doesn’t seem to mind but he shifts forward intently, instead, grinning when Zayn’s mouth drops open and his head tilts back, eyes closing.

“Shut it,” Harry teases, and then he’s dropping his own head down onto Zayn’s shoulder as he picks up the pace again, feeling the tightening of his stomach too soon, the burning in his legs.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and then he’s going as fast as he can, slipping a hand between them to strip Zayn’s cock in time with his thrusts, biting at his neck both to hold back his moans and to make Zayn moan louder.

He bites into the flesh of Zayn’s right peck as he comes, a whine at the back of his throat when Zayn’s hand pulls on his hair roughly. Zayn inhales, sharp and distinct, and then Harry feels wetness spurting against his stomach. He pulls out, flopping heavily to the left side of Zayn, flinging the condom somewhere.

“Shit,” he chokes out, bringing his right arm up to cover his face, “ _Zayn._ ”

“Yeah,” Zayn pants out, and Harry peeks through his messy hair and forearm to see Zayn staring at the ceiling, legs splayed and looking absolutely wrecked. “Yeah.”

He turns onto his side after a few minutes, throwing his right arm over Zayn’s chest. Zayn’s hair looks stark against the cream ( _hah!_ ) sheets, and Harry smiles sleepily at him. He rubs his thumb into the ink on Zayn’s chest, thinking about all the ways they can _be,_ now. Louis was right – who says they can’t date?

“Same time tomorrow?” Harry jokes, flicking his eyes up from where his fingers rest to look at Zayn, his heart fluttering wildly. His crush stares at him, expression too complicated to decipher.

“Alright.” Zayn murmurs, and Harry grins, wide and bright. When he thinks back on it, it’s probably the night he fell for Zayn.

Might just be the night Zayn decided not to fall for him, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the angst continues. I apologise to all those I promised a Zarry reunion to this chapter. I'm a liar.


	3. Chapter 3

**June, 2017**

 

London is dreary. After Mexico, after Hawaii, it seems like the worst sort of welcome home for it to be raining, for the skies to be grey. It’s harder to imagine solutions, to think of an apology, when the clouds hang overhead like some kind of clichéd foreshadowing.

But it’s home, if anything. And Harry’s always done his best thinking at home. Part of him relishes in the fact that at least here, he knows he can collect his head. New York and L.A. and Cabo and Honolulu had him confused, lost, wondering whether there was going to be any kind of cure for this awful, horrible, life-long disease of love.

He’s starting to think maybe not. It sends a chill through him, a coldness settling into his bones with certainty. Maybe it’s incurable... but he’s going to have to live with it. So, treatment is his best option.

As he usually does in times of crisis, Harry throws himself into his work.

“Alright, then, Harry?” James asks him before the performance. Harry’s velvet suit suddenly feels like a second skin; maybe more like armour than a skin, because it’s clunky and extravagant and distracts both him and the people watching from the song he’s going to sing; this song he insisted be a single because he just wanted to believe someone had heard it, even if it wasn’t _him._

“I’m fine.” Harry says, smiling. James’ head tilts just a bit, and Harry knows he’s not really fooling him – they’ve known each other too long, now, and Harry’s not been on his best behaviour recently. He’s let slip a few too many things, sent a few too many inebriated texts. It’s not like James has been privy to any of that, but Harry feels like their understanding runs deeper than context, much to Harry’s disadvantage.

“Good to know,” James replies, smiling sunnily, “Hope whoever’s hearing this one ends your misery, mate.”

Harry rolls his eyes with a smile, knowing that James is just trying to be supportive – but it seems ludicrous that he says it now, when Harry’s first performance of the song was back on his L.A. _Late Late Show_ appearance. The whole thing had felt a lot rawer, then, as well; Harry had nearly vomited backstage, and the silk shirt he’d worn hadn’t felt right. There’s that divide, between the person Harry is to his fans – the garishly clothed, eccentric sort of person he appears to be on stage and in interviews – and the person who wrote the lyrics _I’m just trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat._ The two sides had never felt more distinct than during that performance.

This time, it feels a bit strange that there’s no audience in front of him. He finds his eyes can’t catch on any one thing; they dart around, his thoughts running wild without anything to tether them. His gaze flicks to the darkening sky, then to Mitch, then down to his guitar, and then to nothing at all. It seems rather bland, like he’s just going through the motions, singing “ _Taste so sweet, look so real; sounds like something that I used to feel. I can’t touch what I see,”_ without a thought as to when those words were first etched, pen nearly ripping through the paper in Harry’s haste, frantic tears distorting the ink because he was having one of those moments; where he didn’t know how else to explain everything but through song. Zayn just never heard this one, and won’t ever look at him across a stage and _know._

And it’s as Harry stands there, London’s sunset behind him, that he thinks – none of it means anything, then. Not really. Not when Zayn isn’t around to roll his eyes or mutter something under his breath or say nothing at all. It seems obvious, now – that Harry doesn’t know what to do without the promise of Zayn being there beside him, leading the way.

Harry just wishes Zayn were here; for all of it, but mostly for right now, as Harry navigates being alone whilst sharing himself with the world. It’s ironic that he needs help to be alone, when most people would say he’s been that way for as long as they can remember. The problem is that none of them remember _Zayn,_ tugging on Harry’s curls when he got beside himself; they don’t remember him – never would have known him to – kissing Harry’s thoughts away, scratching silent promises into his skin; they don’t remember Zayn’s soft comments, the way he defended Harry from insensitive interviewers, making him more human with every muttered ‘he’s not like that’. None of them remember it because Zayn hid it so well.

Harry will never forget, though – not when it shaped him into the person he is, not when Zayn sacrificed so much of himself to make Harry feel like a person, and Harry could barely do the same.

Presently, he feels irrevocably guilty – and instead of rebelling against it, spitting out empty condolences like _Why should_ I _feel guilty?_ and _I’m not the one who left;_ instead of all of that, he realises that he never tried to ask, never even attempted to see things as Zayn did. He deserves it, he realises – this silence, this neutrality. It’s the most effective way of cutting Harry deep, and Zayn would know it. Harry deserves it – he took so much from Zayn and offered so little. It seems laughable, suddenly, that he ever thought Zayn never gave him much and that he gave Zayn everything.

 _He’s got to know,_ he thinks as he hands his guitar off to an instrument tech, a few production assistants scurrying about – James seems to sense that he’s distracted, because he congratulates him again and then lets him go with just a hug instead of insisting he come to his place afterward for some drinks, chatting him up good-naturedly.

 _How do I make him know?_ Harry worries, chewing at his bottom lip absently until it’s swollen and red and stings at the slightest pinch. _How do I make_ sure _he knows?_

He thinks about the last time they spoke – jilted lovers throwing barbs at each other through text message – and wonders whether he dare do it.

But Harry’s nothing if not relentlessly charming, and he feels like if he’s going to use his powers for good, then this is the perfect opportunity.

“H,” Kendall groans into the phone when she picks up. He’d thought she might leave him hanging, it was ringing so long, “Now’s not the time.”

“Are you...” Harry starts, licking his lips nervously as he nods his head at the band, smiling to appease their curious looks – they’re normally off for drinks somewhere by now, and he’s probably holding them up. He waves them on, shaking his head with another smile. Clare frowns, but Mitch is pulling her along and the rest of them leave with only a glance behind them before they’re gone from sight. “Are you still in New York?”

“And what’s it to you, Harry Styles?” She flirts, and Harry covers his eyes with a hand to hold back his cringe. Kendall barely knows anything, but she knows enough to be firm on the fact that they’re just friends. But maybe he has to do this, just to have her on his side. Maybe he’s going to have to entertain her a bit. He holds back a shudder at the thought. If his mum knew, she’d kill him. If _Gemma_ knew–

“Thought I might drop by tomorrow.” Harry mentions, tone light and breezy. He drops his hand from his face, clenching his fist to stop the shakes. His heart’s beating frantically in his chest like he’s there right now, trying to orchestrate it all in person.

“Okay,” Kendall replies slowly. Harry sighs – she knows something’s happening, or she’d still be trying it on in her own way. “This doesn’t have anything to do with a certain model, does it?”

Harry frowns. He opens his mouth to ask what she’s on about when she hammers on.

“Because as much as your feud with Zayn sort of intrigues me, I don’t really want to get Gigi involved,” She sounds annoyed, “I mean, there are _other_ models. Hook up with them.”

On the one hand, Harry’s thankful. On the other, he’s a little offended Kendall would think that of him. Nevertheless, it suits his needs – and Harry’s already established with himself that he’s willing to say things he doesn’t mean to get this to happen, so he takes her lead.

“What’s the harm in a nice chat?” He asks, wincing at his tone. God, it’s felt like an age since he did this; pretend he’s interested, acting like he’s got plans for some random model he’s never heard of, let alone seen in person.

“You’re the worst.” Kendall says, but she laughs, anyway. “I’m still in New York, you asshole. And you better not ditch me to talk to Gigi. I expect some one on one time.”

“Of course,” Harry acquiesces – this is easy enough to do. They’re friends. Sort of. Friends of convenience, mostly, but she’s not as painful as he’d first imagined back when Jeff had strongly suggested they be seen together. “You know you’re my number one girl.”

“You make me wanna puke,” she tells him, and Harry genuinely laughs. He knows the feeling. “But there’s a party someplace tomorrow. All the... _relevant_ people... will be there.” To anyone else, it’d sound pretentious – but Harry understands what she’s trying to say. “I’ll get my assistant to send yours the address. Dress nice, but no floral.”

“What’s wrong with my floral?” Harry retorts, offended. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m the height of fashion.”

“Whatever,” she replies, and Harry can imagine her eye-roll, “I’ll see you then.”

His assistant books his flight without question – _Deserves a nice Christmas bonus,_ he thinks – and he’s on a late red eye to New York City in a matter of hours.

He’d booked a hotel for a few nights, feeling optimistic. He just wants to be able to talk to him – he doesn’t need a love confession, he knows better – and if he can do it more than once, he’ll be satisfied.

He naps for a few hours when he gets in late morning, and by the time he’s had some food, gone for a run in the hotel’s gym, decided on his outfit and is ringing up Kendall again, it’s nearing five o’clock.

“Wow,” she begins, sounding reluctantly surprised, “You’re really set on her, aren’t you? This is _eager._ ”

“Shut up,” Harry answers, a little childishly – she’s got no clue, and he’s sort of still annoyed that she thinks he’d try to steal someone’s girlfriend, ‘enemy’ or not. “What time are you getting in?”

They agree to arrive around the same time, though not together. It starts late, and Harry’s already dreading the groggy haze of tomorrow by the time he strolls through the doors of some hotshot club around half eleven. He gives his name, gets an unimpressed eyebrow from the bouncer, and heads straight to the bar for a drink.

He’s just finished sculling his first tequila sunrise by the time Kendall reaches him.

“Easy, cowboy,” she tells him, appearing beside him under the rotating lights, face shadowed strangely. “Pretty sure you want to be sober for this.”

“Are they here yet?” He asks, because he hasn’t had the courage to take stock of his surroundings. He’s not sure he’ll be able to handle Zayn looking at him from across the dancefloor, face as impassive as ever. At least if he _is_ doing that, Kendall can act as a warning.

“I think so,” she says, looking around. Her hair is sleek and straight, and Harry barely notes that she’s wearing a shimmering top before he turns to the bartender for another, “Let me text her.” She whips out her phone as Harry’s second drink arrives, tapping away at the screen quickly. He’s half-way through his second tequila sunrise when she makes a noise.

“Oh, they’re here, alright. Gigi told me you should probably leave.”

That gets Harry’s attention. He tips the last of his drink into his mouth, stomach churning, and simply says, “Oh?”

“You know she’s not interested, right?” Kendall says, and they lock eyes. She breaks it, gaze roving over his face, and then suddenly her expression changes into something perplexed. “And neither are you. Okay. Was not expecting that so much.”

“Look, I’ll–” Harry breathes deeply, wiping his damp palm onto his black slacks. He’d gone simple – black slacks, nearly sheer black shirt, and a black blazer. He looks inconspicuous, but presentable. He thinks it’s about the least offensive outfit he owns.

As if that will help his case any.

“I’ll find you after, alright?” He exclaims as the music suddenly picks up, thumping through him. Kendall replies with something he can’t hear, so he just nods and turns around, eyes searching the room for that tell-tale _something._

After a few moments, he glimpses a flash of blonde near the DJ, a sequined dress, and green tips. He strides over, ignoring the pounding of his heart and the clammy nature of his hands. He can’t think too much about it or he’ll lose his nerve – he’s about to lose his dinner in a minute, but instead all that happens when he reaches them, their eyes piercing, is that he blurts out, “Hello.”

He imagines he might hear the sound of crickets chirping if they were anywhere but a club.

The two of them look so good together, is Harry’s initial thought. Zayn is – he’s Zayn. Harry’s always thought, even when he was seventeen and breaking out; even when he was tired and missing his family; even when he was too skinny and almost mute – Harry’s always thought he was a masterpiece, an intricate artwork that should be hanging in a gallery somewhere in Italy. Maybe marble, smoothly chipped away to reveal a Zayn so perfect people don’t think he could have ever existed.

On top of that, Gigi is tall and wide-eyed, her long legs shown off in a floor-length number that drapes across her lean frame. There’s a slight hunch to her shoulders, though, that lets Harry know she’s exactly Zayn’s type – beautiful, of course, but also human. Probably has some weird interests that make her stand out. Suddenly, Harry feels lacklustre. All he has is his baking.

They share a look, and Harry pushes down the jealousy that can’t help but rear its ugly head – unfortunate timing – before Gigi smirks.

“I think I saw Lady Gaga earlier,” she says, as if Lady Gaga would attend a club event that tabloid celebrities like them are invited to, “if you’ll excuse me.”

She steps forward, and then leans in to talk into his ear as she passes.

“If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you,” and with a pat on his arm she leaves them, quick and painless.

“Erm,” Harry says as the music thuds around them, “Outside?” He exclaims, jerking a thumb somewhere behind him as if he knows that’s where the nearest exit is. “To talk?”

Zayn barely spares him a glance before he pushes past him. Harry follows – he always follows – and they’re out in a side street of the club before he knows it. Zayn knocks over a stray brick with his foot, pushing it between the door and its jamb so they’re not locked out.

It’s a noisy lane, but only because of the resonating club music. They’re alone, he takes in as he turns his head to look, and Harry hopes it stays that way. He has a lot to say.

These things are always more difficult in practise, however – and so they stand across from each other for a minute, Harry shuffling about. Zayn’s got one hand in his pants pocket.

He’s divine, in every which way. Harry almost can’t fathom it. His hair is tossed to one side, the green-tips fading into something yellow-ish, though still interesting. His beard is full, and he’s wearing black jeans rolled at the cuffs and a faded black t-shirt with a peeling design on, tucked in with a belt. He fills them out nicely, more weight on his bones. There’s a necklace Harry’s never seen before hanging from his neck, and a few rings.

Nothing familiar. If he didn’t have the same face, Harry wouldn’t recognise him.

Zayn just stares at him, expressionless.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, carefully cataloguing Zayn’s reaction. There’s nothing yet. “About the texts. They were out of line, and–” He chuckles dryly, “not what I wanted to say.”

There’s silence once more, and Zayn moves to cross his arms.

“I’ve just been,” He licks his lips. Trying to form words when his tongue feels so swollen and useless in his mouth is just about the hardest thing he’s ever done. “I’ve been thinking about you since, you know, that call–” Surely, it was an age ago? That Call or Delete segment? It feels like millennia. “And I wanted to say I was sorry. To apologise.” He frowns down at his hands, because looking into Zayn’s dark eyes and seeing nothing is starting to get a little perturbing. “I thought maybe... well, I thought I had something to do with you, err,” Harry coughs, fighting the burn in his throat at the thought, “With you leaving. And I’m...” He looks up, eyes catching on Zayn’s and hoping for something to flicker there, “I’m really, truly sorry. That maybe I said something, or did something, or...”

Zayn looks at him. Harry wishes he could say there was anything other than scepticism on his face, but he’d be lying to himself – and he’s about done with that. Maybe Zayn didn’t love him, but he realises there was a tiny part of Harry that wished, that held the possibility close to his heart.

His head snaps up at Zayn’s voice, rough and irritated.

“You are so self-absorbed,” Zayn chuckles darkly, shaking his head, “It was never about you. Nothing was _ever_ about you.”

It’s like he doesn’t even realise what he’s saying. The words slap Harry across the face – the confirmation that it was all in his head has him reeling, speechless.

“You think our casual fling had any kind of effect on what happened?” Zayn comes out with, like that initial sentence gave him a burst of steam even he didn’t expect. His face twists, and then he continues on with an expression that reads as mildly inconvenienced. “And what – you’re upset because you lost your regular fuck buddy? Get over it, Harry. You’re charming, but you’re not that charming.”

“Zayn,” Harry chokes out, eyes stinging, feeling used and hopeless and like he’s newly twenty-one all over again in a singular, wretched beat of his heart, “What are–”

“You think you can just play people like that?” Zayn goes on, not seeming to realise the divide he’s deepening with every word, “You think you can make them fall in love with you and then act like it mattered? Like you cared?” Zayn scoffs, and Harry notes the way his fingers are shaking, like he’s desperate for a smoke. His mouth turns down into a disappointed sneer. “I never thought you were cruel until after I left the band, Harry. Never.”

“Wait,” Harry gets out, throat feeling clogged up and heart vulnerable, the metres between them feeling like miles; like Harry’s at the beginning of the book and Zayn’s just turned the last page, “Fall in love with me?”

Zayn gives him a look so dry, so withering, that Harry shrinks back.

“Falling in love with you was the worst fucking thing I ever did,” Zayn mutters, clenching his fists, “I wish I could take it back. I wish I could tell myself not to bother with any of it.”

“I thought–” Harry starts, thoughts whirling as he frowns at his shoes, “I thought I’d imagined it. I thought– you didn’t, though?” He snaps his head to gaze at Zayn, eyes wide, remembering all the times Zayn laughed when Harry told him he’d ruined Harry for anyone else, all the times Zayn hadn’t leant into his touch, “You didn’t, Zayn. You didn’t love me.”

“I was in love with you,” Zayn tells him evenly, staring at Harry like he’s deranged, “and I knew you didn’t love me back. But I didn’t think you’d ever throw it back in my face – or kick me in it, evidently.”

“I was angry,” Harry blurts out, stepping forward, feeling clumsy and too big for the space, even though they’re outside, even though he can hear the crowd in the club through the thumping of the bass, “I was angry at you, at myself, at the lads... I was angry at everyone and everything for letting it happen.”

“You had a temper tantrum,” Zayn spits out, and the first real kind of emotion crosses his face, a flicker of sadness, of something resembling heartbreak. Harry realises he deserves this vitriol. He realises this, now – he realises that he made something that was never about him into a personal slight, like Zayn was leaving Harry that day when– “Like a little kid who lost their favourite toy. I left the _band,_ Harry,” Zayn clenches his jaw, “I wasn’t leaving you, or whatever fucking stupid thing you thought I was doing – whatever made you stop talking to me.”

Harry swallows, trying not to notice the way Zayn wipes at his eyes, the way he looks at anything but Harry.

But Harry’s never been good with that – he’s always pushed at Zayn, always begged for his attention; so there’s nothing unusual about the way he moves closer, within an arm’s reach of him. He doesn’t have anything profound to say, but at least Zayn’s _looking_ at him now.

“It’s not like you reached out, either,” Harry retorts weakly, eyes searching Zayn’s handsome face, tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones as they cut down to his pursed lips, angry and frustrated. “It’s not like I got a ring from you.”

“I’m not the one who had to make that decision,” Zayn tells him fiercely, “I’m not the one who had to show they understood. And you didn’t. You never understood.”

Zayn knows just what to say to make Harry’s heart hurt just that little bit more, his eyes watering.

“I do now,” Harry croaks, pulling at Zayn’s forearms, hoping he relents, “Zayn, I understand. I get it. Just–” He moves his hands up to cradle Zayn’s face, holding his gaze, willing him to listen, “You’ve got to speak to me. You’ve got to tell me what you’re feeling.”

Zayn’s face contorts, his remarkable features morphing into something frightening, though still beautiful.

“You should _know!_ ” Zayn cries out, ripping himself away, putting space between them, “You, of all people! You’re the one who’s meant to _get it!_ ”

“I’m sorry!” Harry exclaims, tears running down his face now. He doesn’t even have the excuse of drinking too much, his mind alarmingly sober after only two, and then this conversation. He just fucking hopes the paps aren’t around to catch any of this, hopes this laneway is enough to hide them from interest. “I fucked up!”

Zayn stares at him, eyes wild, and opens his mouth to respond when there’s a pause, and then he suddenly deflates, posture defeated.

“I’m done with this, Harry,” he tells him, scratching at his face through his beard, “I was done with this a long time ago. Just–” he sighs, backing away, “don’t talk to me.”

“Zayn.” Harry pleads, tone reedy with emotion as Zayn turns to leave. Zayn looks back at him, hesitating barely a second, before he pushes through the door back into the club. It clicks shut, the brick moved away from the jamb.

It feels reminiscent of another time, when Harry followed and Niall found him a while later, sobbing into the carpet. There’s no one else here now, though, and Harry’s learnt to live with his mistakes. He lets the tears fall, but he knows – Zayn locked him out of the club. Harry can’t follow.

He walks down the alleyway and hails a cab back to his hotel, face wet and heart wrung dry.

 

***

 

**January, 2016**

 

“You know,” Jeff starts, and his pondering tone makes Harry stiffen out of habit, his gut churning instinctually. “You’ve never dated someone with brown eyes.”

Harry tries not to let the memories flood him and instead he closes his eyes, breathes deep.

“What’s your point, man?” He asks, turning to look at Jeff after a moment, “It’s just a song.”

“A song that you’ve been writing for years,” Jeff states, as if Harry is being deliberately obtuse – and maybe he is, but Jeff wouldn’t know for sure, “A song that you insisted had to be on the album.”

He doesn’t say anything – at this point, one word could be more incriminating than anything else he’s ever said.

“I’m not trying to, like, expose you, man,” Jeff explains, eyebrows raised, “Whatever’s going to make this album the talk of the town is fine by me – that’s my job,” He clarifies at Harry’s frown, “But I like to think we’re friends, and friends would tell each other if they were dating someone, right?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just picks at the plastic rings of his notebook and hopes Jeff gets the idea. If it were up to Harry, he would’ve been singing Zayn’s praises all the time; he wouldn’t have been able to shut up about him – much to Zayn’s displeasure, Harry is sure. But real life had dictated that Harry’d had to stay mute, pretend like they were just mates. And on top of that, Zayn hadn’t really seen them as anything but mates with a few more strings attached – strings of the physical variety – so there’d been no point in telling anyone, let alone someone from the management he was trying to transfer to. He’d had to make a good impression, in a way.

Still, the lyrics are obvious now that Harry thinks about them. Who else is he connected to that fits the descriptor?

“I mean,” Jeff starts at Harry’s silence, voice unsure, “ _Same brown eyes, those red lips; tattoos burned into your slim hips. It’s not you, and it’s not me.”_ He frowns. “That’s not easy to spin, H. Throw me a bone, here.”

“We can change them,” Harry blurts out after an awkward, stagnant moment, “That’s fine.”

Jeff frowns, and he’s looking at Harry in a way that makes him shift in his seat, feeling an unidentifiable itch under his skin at the gaze. If he still had his long hair, he’d mess it up, leaning over to obscure his face in the process. But instead he’s got nothing to hide behind, and he just twists and turns his rings around instead, not thinking about the one or two that are missing.

“We could do something about Taylor, maybe,” Jeff ruminates out loud, and Harry’s stomach clenches uncomfortably, “I know you hate it, but it’s either her or Louis and, somehow, I don’t think your former band mate would appreciate that.”

“Taylor with tattoos,” Harry jokes, his heart not fully in it, “there’s a thought.”

Jeff squints at him. “You never know.”

It’s better than the truth. It’s better than Jeff knowing that he got well and truly dumped the same day Zayn left the band, the same day Harry’s life changed forever. It’s better than anyone knowing about what really happened.

“Yeah,” Harry answers tonelessly, ignoring Jeff’s raised eyebrow – he’d left it a little late to say anything, but he’s been doing all sorts of odd things recently. He just hopes everyone’s blaming it on debut album anxiety or something. “Of course.”

He changes the lyrics. The new guitarist looks at him knowingly when they introduce the song into the studio a few days later. He likes Mitch, though, so he lets it slide. It’s better than the truth.

 

***

 

**June, 2017**

 

“Hey, Mum,” Harry greets, voice low and meek. He can’t quite muster up the usual enthusiasm, even if her voice makes him smile for the first time since the club, two nights gone now.

“Baby,” she says, tone serious, “What’s happened? You sound off.”

Harry chuckles a little wetly, wiping at his tired eyes. “S’nothing, really. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re always fine, Harry,” she tells him, sounding worried, “I know that. But are you happy?”

“Mum,” Harry starts miserably, sniffling, swallowing thickly, “Mum, I’ve... I’ve gone and mucked it up.”

She laughs lightly at his conscious effort to avoid expletives. “Harry, what could you have possibly mucked up?” The fact that she sounds so disbelieving brings on another set of tears. And Harry’s just tired of crying all the time. When he feels like there are no more tears to fall, they come rushing in again. It’s exhausting, is what it is; and whilst he knows he’s going to have to live with this – get back up with a smile on his face, just him alone – it doesn’t make it any easier. There’s a sense of closure he didn’t have before, but mostly Harry just feels split open, organs tumbling out every which way like he really is a soldier in World War II.

“I didn’t say anything,” he tries to explain, sounding snotty and disgusting, voice thick with sadness, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Harry,” she says, tone weary, “I’m your mum, darling.”

“Yeah, but you worry so much anyway,” he defends himself, frowning, “I just wanted to spare you the drama, but–” He chuckles again, empty, taking a few moments to gather his harsh thoughts, “Zayn and I spoke again, Mum. It was... it was awful.”

“What happened?” she asks, and he can hear some rustling, like she’s chosen to sit down.

“Is that Harry?” he hears, and he closes his eyes on Robin’s voice.

His mum’s voice gets far away. “Not now, darling – later.” There’s some hushed whispers before her voice comes back, close and familiar. “Sorry, love.”

“It’s alright,” he says, knuckling into an eye, “Erm, we spoke, I suppose.”

“What did you say?” she asks, and Harry’s supremely thankful she didn’t ask _why_ they spoke – he’s not quite ready to admit that just yet; not when his emotions are spilling over everywhere, like someone’s poured too many of them into him and he can’t hold them all.

“It’s– it’s complicated.” He chews on his bottom lip, eyes still closed. “He said he was in love with me.”

There’s a pause. “Oh,” His mum sounds taken aback, and maybe Gemma didn’t explain everything, after all. Maybe he’s just gone and blurted to his mum his best kept secret and she’d had no clue. “How does that make you feel, darling?”

“Rotten, Mum,” he admits quickly, remembering the elation he’d felt, the crashing down to Earth with the followed _I wish I could take it back. I wish I could tell myself not to bother with any of it._ “He said... he said it’s the worst thing he’s ever done. Loving me, I mean.”

“Oh, Harry,” she says, and she sounds just as miserable as him, “I’m so sorry.”

He bites back something mean, like how there are no amount of sorrys that can fix what’s happened, that can make him feel better. But he’s not that person anymore – he’s let the poison go, and he just doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“What am I meant to do?” He sounds small even to his own ears, and he opens his eyes, seeing stars and blurry shapes. “I’m still in love with him.”

The other line is silent for a few tense moments, and Harry wonders how he’s going to talk about this in person – his mother’s face must be a myriad of thoughts, right now; his curiosity is piqued, but he knows he’d likely start crying all over again if he knew what she was really thinking.

“You never said, Harry,” she states, and she sounds confused, “All the times I asked, you never said.”

“I didn’t want to jinx it,” It sounds idiotic, now that he says it out loud. “I was stupid,” he continues, fierce and frustrated, “I was stupid and childish and everything was just– it was so bloody stupid, Mum.”

“Did you...” She trails off, and Harry makes an inquisitive noise, encouraging her to continue. “Well,” she clears her throat, “did you tell him?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks slowly, frowning, “Of course. I–” He stops himself, swallowing.

“Did you say the words, baby?” She asks, and Harry wracks his brain for a memory that isn’t there. “You know how, sometimes, Gemma says you show your love? You don’t talk about it, Harry. I’m about the only one you say it to. Gets your sister riled up, every now and then.”

“But he should’ve known,” He thinks out loud, running ringed fingers through his messy hair, “Mum, I said it in so many other ways.”

He thinks of Zayn’s hand in his lap, Harry’s fingers playing with his bracelets, tracing the delicate bones of his wrist. He thinks of breathing against Zayn’s lips, mouthing the words – _“Only you.”_ – and thinking Zayn must’ve not felt the same, not when he’d buried his head into Harry’s shoulder and just continued on thrusting. He thinks of nights spent curled up together, laughing as Zayn knocked his cold feet against Harry’s. He thinks of all the times he’d look at Zayn – what was written on his face, the soft smile he couldn’t hold back.

Maybe Zayn didn’t see any of that. Maybe all he saw was Harry poking him and asking for sex and ignoring him on stage because too close and Harry would be sorely tempted to do or say something he’d regret; but only because they were in front of thousands of cameras, and Zayn had always valued his privacy.

“Sometimes people need to hear it, love,” she explains, and her tone is delicate, like he’s about to go off the handle at any minute. Or break down. One of the two. “Zayn was always hard to read, but something tells me he might need the words.”

“Shit– I mean, bullocks.” He swears, wincing, “Sorry, Mum.”

“Tell him, Harry,” she prods, forgoing discipline, “Tell him and you’ll feel a lot better. You’re not twenty-one anymore.”

He feels the sting of the insinuation, but she’s right. He’s an adult, and he needs to act like one.

“Thanks, Mum,” he tells her, heart lifting, “I love you.”

She laughs, probably at the irony. “I love you, too. And I think Robin wants to have a chat. Shall I put him on?”

 

***

 

**August, 2013**

 

Harry’s nineteen, he tells himself later in the comfort of his own bedroom, alone and dejected. He’s allowed to be a kid every now and then. They’ve spent the last three years on tour, missing school, missing uni. It’s hard to grow up when it feels like everything’s the same.

He doesn’t think that right now, though. Not when he sees the ring on Perrie’s finger, or the smile on Zayn’s face.

“Congrats,” he says, making sure he sounds even and controlled. Zayn’s looking at him, but so is everyone else. He takes a bite out of his banana, something to occupy his mouth so he doesn’t spit out a few regrettable words. “To the happy couple.” He lifts his half-eaten fruit into the air, imitating a cheers.

Louis narrows his eyes, but seems to brush his behaviour off just as quickly to curl an arm around Zayn’s shoulders roughly, grinning wide and sharp.

“Brilliant news, lad, positively brilliant.” He enthuses, and Liam’s grinning at Perrie, friendly and oblivious. “When’s the buck’s night?”

“Bit early for that,” Perrie says, laughing, “Give us a year, yeah?”

Niall comes over to Harry, nudges him with an elbow and a smile. Harry stares back.

The other four are chatting away, but Harry feels like there are eyes on him – he simply can’t look, though. Not when they could be the wrong eyes.

“Cheer up,” Niall nudges him again, hair spiking up all over the place. Harry wants to pat it down, give him a full makeover. “You’ll find someone.”

And he wants to laugh – because that’s what Niall thinks, isn’t it? That Harry’s sad because he’s single and Zayn’s found the love of his life.

 _But I_ have _found the love of my life,_ he thinks, and the thought is so clear, so distinct that he almost drops his banana.

“Sure,” Harry agrees, feeling like his feet have been pulled out from underneath him. His eyes are wide, and he looks around without purpose until their gazes meet. Zayn’s got his head turned toward his fiancée, but he’s staring at Harry. Harry looks away, back to Niall. “Think I should ask Leigh-Anne out?”

Niall cackles, throws his head back. “Are you mad, Styles? She’d eat you alive.”

Harry’s not sure there’s much left for anyone to eat, but he understands the sentiment.

 

***

 

“Hey,” Zayn murmurs softly, closing the door to the kitchen behind him. The others are loud through the brick and plaster, and Harry thinks that must be why Zayn’s so quiet. Can’t let anyone else hear, can they? No one else can know.

“Hey,” Harry replies, giving a nod over his shoulder. He’s cutting up some carrot. He’s got the homemade Malik hummus in a bowl for dipping already, and he’s just got to arrange the vegies artfully after some measured slicing. He’s definitely fine. Very much on the alright spectrum.

Harry barely hears Zayn tread over, his socks silent on the tiled floor. Harry’s got his boots on – hadn’t felt he could fully relax, when he’d seen Perrie’s blonde curls on the couch. He can make a quick getaway if need be, this way.

He feels a light touch on his elbow and stops cutting. He turns to Zayn, neck twinging. Their height difference is greater given his shoes, and looking down on Zayn makes something flutter in his chest.

“You know it’s still... it was planned, yeah?” His eyes look between Harry’s, searching.

“I’d hope so,” Harry jokes, his headscarf itching to be readjusted. He’s got his hands full, though; and if he drops the knife, it gives Zayn a chance to touch something other than his bent elbow. “Wouldn’t want this to be an impulsive decision.”

“It wasn’t my decision.” Zayn says, and then he sighs. “We’ve spoken about this.”

Harry doesn’t want to snap, doesn’t want to spit out – _“Yeah, over a year ago.”_ – so he just shrugs, turning back to his vegetables. Celery’s never lied to him, not even about its calorie count.

A bark of laughter that sounds like Niall comes through the walls, and Zayn’s touch leaves Harry’s elbow with a silent sigh of relief. But it returns again, this time at his waist, pushing him until they’re facing one another. Zayn’s other hand comes up to pry the knife from Harry’s, and then once it deposits it back on the counter it’s at the nape of Harry’s neck, pressing in.

Zayn’s hand has him leaning down, back hunching over. Zayn’s head is tilted up, and his eyes are half-lidded and then their lips brush, softly at first and then harder all of a sudden, Zayn’s teeth grazing his bottom lip as Harry pulls Zayn closer by his slim hips, feeling the burn of his tattoos through his cotton t-shirt, the _DON’T THINK I WON’T..._ a reminder of a time when they were petering on the edge of what they are now.

He pulls away enough to whisper, “The others–” before Zayn crushes their mouths together once more, nibbling at Harry’s lips and then licking into his mouth in broad strokes, confident and mind-numbing. Harry doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where to put his hands. He buries one in Zayn’s hair, and lets the other stay at his hip, hovering over the tattoo as Zayn’s breath hitches a little.

“So?” Zayn asks, and it takes a moment for Harry to remember what he’d even said, what would incur that kind of response. Zayn drags his lips down Harry’s neck, biting gently along the way. He pulls back when Harry hisses at a sharp nip. His pupils are blown, his hair messy every which way. Harry takes his hand to it and flattens it out, makes sure it doesn’t just look like someone’s had their hands in it.

If the others notice that when they both come out with the vegies and dip that their lips red and the two of them are a little breathless, no one says anything. Zayn sits back down next to Perrie, and Harry lands heavily beside Liam, welcoming the hand around him and leaning his head on Liam’s shoulder.

Nothing’s changed. Harry doesn’t feel any different than when he walked into that kitchen, bereft. All he knows is that they’re going to keep doing what they’ve been doing. He’s not sure how he feels about it anymore, even if his neck feels red and raw from Zayn’s attentions; even if his heart pounds in his chest at the thought of doing it again.

He doesn’t go home with Zayn, though. He spends the night alone in his own bed, and he thinks it’s just about the worst night’s sleep he’s ever had.

 

***

 

**June, 2017**

 

_What’s Zayn’s address?_

_You fecker,_ Niall sends back almost immediately, _you’re a dead man ._

Niall sends through the address, somewhere in Noho, and Harry’s changing into something inconspicuous – running gear seems to do the job – before he’s grabbing his phone, wallet, and hotel key and leaving the building.

The buzzer doesn’t have a name, but Harry knows the number and he presses, lungs struggling for air. He’d run there, hoping to avoid anyone who might be tracking his car company, as has happened before.

“Yeah?” a female voice answers, and Harry curses silently. Gigi. Of course.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath, “It’s Harry.” He pauses. “Styles.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, and Harry can hear the irritation through the speaker, “And why should I let you in?”

“Because I’m in love with Zayn.” He hopes Zayn’s there, hears him. But he also hopes he’s not, and that Harry can have a do-over because he’s just put his foot in his mouth, hasn’t he? He’s gone and shown all his cards before the game’s ended.

“Right.” Gigi says, and she sounds stilted. “Well. Come up, I guess.”

She buzzes him through, and he makes a quick sweep of his surrounds before he slides through the doors quickly, satisfied that he hasn’t been spotted by a stray fan or pap. He can imagine the headlines now: _Gigi Hadid cheats on Zayn Malik with former bandmate and arch-nemesis Harry Styles._ He thinks he’d turn into a hermit if that happened.

“Yikes,” Gigi announces as she swings open the door, eyebrows raised, “you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” Harry says with a sarcastic smile as she steps back, letting him enter.

“So, this is sort of awkward,” she starts when he turns around, ignoring the silver and grey look of the place, the modern edges and fine finishes. It’s everything Zayn’s not, and he hates it instantly. “But Z’s not here. Should be back in about thirty minutes, though.”

“Oh,” Harry intonates, face blank. He hadn’t exactly thought that far through – and he definitely hadn’t expected Gigi Hadid to be his audience. _Fuck._ “Erm,” he stalls, “How’re things?”

“Really?” Gigi asks him, smirking, “That’s all?”

Harry just stares at her.

“Things are fine.” She says, and plonks herself down onto the light grey sofa, stretching out her long legs. She’s wearing soft, ripped jeans and a t-shirt, very much domestic. She shoots him a sharp look. “They better stay fine.”

“Right,” Harry answers jerkily, nodding quickly, “You and Zayn.”

“I’m gay as hell,” she tells him, and Harry’s eyes snap to her in surprise. She’s still smirking. “But sure, me and Zayn.”

The door clicks, and the two of them turn to look at the newcomer.

“I forgot my fucking phone,” Zayn grumbles, frowning. He looks up from fiddling with his keys in the door to see them – Gigi lying back on the couch, relaxed as anything; and Harry hovering awkwardly nearby, sweat at his temples and his hairy calves out for all and sundry to see.

His face clears, and he looks stony. “What are you doing here?” He’s looking at Harry, tone hard.

“This is my cue to leave,” Gigi sighs, getting up off the sofa. “Play nice, or whatever. I’ll be not here.” She strides past Harry to the door, giving Zayn a pat on the elbow before grabbing his keys from him and fleeing. The flat is silent, then, and Harry desperately wants to clear his throat. Things feel too strained for even that, though, so they just stare at each other.

“I told you not to speak to me,” Zayn reminds him, depositing his wallet on a side table as he steps further into the room. Harry swallows, nerves setting his veins alight. His hoodie feels too big for him, and he wants to retreat into it like a scared animal at the lack of expression on Zayn’s face. But he came here for a reason – and Harry knows that Zayn needs to hear the words, now. He’s not leaving until Zayn hears the words.

“I’m sorry,” Harry starts with, trying to ignore the way Zayn’s jaw clenches at the apology, “I know it’s not enough, I know. I–” He shakes his head, wishing his long hair was there to tickle his cheeks. “I realise now, you know, that things were different for you.”

“Took you long enough, yeah?” Zayn snaps, and his face transforms from blank to outraged in a millisecond, “I was in the band for five years, and only now you realise things were different?”

“Stop it,” Harry begs him, feeling his face crumble, “I’ve been through this, alright? I know, alright?”

“Why’s it always me that has to be the bigger person?” Zayn asks, frustrated and on the edge of mean, “All of you white boys sit around crying about how I left, and I’m the one who’s the bad guy.” He runs two hands through his hair roughly, back and forth. “I talk about how much I value the band, but I mention that the music’s not for me and suddenly I’m the worst person on earth.” He looks at Harry, angry. “And then you’re there, talking about zebras or some shit.”

That pings something within him, and Harry can’t help himself – he never can, not when Zayn’s eyes are burning into him like that.

“I was a shitty friend!” yells Harry, trying not to get too angry but unable to help the flail of his arms in frustration, “I know that, alright? I was a shitty friend, a shitty– whatever we were!” Zayn clenches his jaw again, and Harry rushes to explain. “I didn’t try. I didn’t try to understand and I just thought you were a massive dickhead for not saying anything and I should’ve known – _I_ should’ve – that I had to ask, I had to be the one who did that.”

Zayn rubs a hand tiredly over his face, mouth opening to say something – Harry knows it won’t be anything good, though. Not when Zayn’s expression is barely readable again.

“I didn’t try,” Harry continues weakly, and he feels the tears start to sting, he feels his arms fall in exhaustion, “But I’m trying now, alright?” He swallows, closes his eyes. “I’m trying now, and all I ask is that you give me a chance.”

The echo of their confrontation resonates in Harry’s ears, and he opens his eyes to see Zayn searching his face from afar, hands clenched by his sides.

“Zayn,” Harry starts, stepping forward and pushing away the voice shouting at him to run, “I’m in love with you.” Zayn’s eyes lock with his, and Harry sees something in there he wants to chase. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

He steps forward some more, and then they’re only a few feet away. Harry stretches out a hand, circles Zayn’s right wrist gently with his left hand, almost shivering at the feel of his skin, finally touching him again after so long, no anger or placation between them.

“And I’m asking now,” he continues, eyes boring into Zayn’s, heart beating a harsh rhythm of tattoos into his ribcage – beating _Might as well...,_ beating a love heart, beating the cover of _The Dark Side Of The Moon,_ “are you in love with me?”

Zayn looks up from Harry’s grip on his wrist. His eyes are shocked, his mouth slightly parted.

“Zayn,” Harry prods after a stagnant moment, but he’s interrupted, their mouths smashing together abruptly. Harry makes a muffled sound of surprise, hands coming up to frame Zayn’s face. It’s rough and messy and overwhelming, and their mouths are slightly off-centre, but Harry feels it in his bones, feels his breath take on a new purpose, his brain buzzing, rattling around in his skull like it’s so excited it can’t contain itself.

He needs to know, though. He won’t make the same mistake again. He has to ask.

“Zayn,” he gasps, pulling back, stopping Zayn from following with his palms, Zayn’s skin pulling in an almost comical way before he relents to the force. “Zayn, are you in love with me?”

Zayn’s eyes dart between his, and he’s breathing heavily. He takes his time, and it’s then that Harry knows – he does. He really does.

Harry’s never needed the words, not like Zayn’s needed them. Harry’s problem was always that he never listened. If he had, he would’ve known that Zayn loved him – still loves him. He would’ve said the words, because he would’ve known that’s what Zayn needed. He would’ve asked him why he looked so tired, so thin. He would’ve asked him – what can I do? How can I help?

His problem was that he never truly listened, but he’s changing that.

“Yeah,” Zayn croaks, and he clears his throat lightly, voice coming out low but sure, “Always, Haz. I just–” He closes his eyes briefly, lashes long and sinful. “I just needed you to know.”

“Without saying it.” Harry finishes for him, and Zayn opens his eyes.

“I needed you to know to ask.” He clarifies, and Harry feels his lips break into a smile of their own volition, his skin on fire with everything that’s happened – said and unsaid – between them. Their paths are aligned again, their histories a smattering of mistakes and wrong choices; but he can’t regret any of it, not when it led him to this – to loving Zayn and being loved in return and feeling, of all things, _happy._

Happy.

He can’t help himself then, pulling Zayn into him, kissing him deep and long and feeling satisfaction seep into his very core.

“It’s been so long,” He breathes against Zayn’s mouth, bumping noses, “I’ve been going crazy.”

Zayn snorts. “Always so dramatic.”

“Shut up,” Harry grins, kissing him again, pulling at his black t-shirt and ignoring the sunglasses hooked into his collar. Harry’ll buy him new ones – Harry’ll buy him everything. He’ll listen and listen and listen and he’ll write a list of all the things Zayn mentions, offhand and meaningless, and he’ll buy them all. He’ll leave them in places Zayn will stumble across, and he’ll accept Zayn’s kiss and his thanks and he’ll ask, _“Do you love me?”_ and Zayn will roll his eyes with a smile and that’ll be enough, he thinks. Harry wants to live like that for now and forever.

“What are you wearing?” Zayn asks, startling Harry out of his daydream. Harry rubs his thumbs into the hinges of Zayn’s bearded jaw, frowning as he looks down at himself.

“I ran here.” He explains.

“You ran here.” Zayn’s tone is incredulous, but Harry wants to think he sounds impressed.

“Stop being mean.” Harry complains, over the top.

“You need it, though,” Zayn comments, raising an eyebrow. Harry looks at him properly – sees the strain around his eyes, the discomfort... like he thinks Harry will disagree; like he thinks Harry might fall into his old ways and be that person again, someone who teases and asks for things Zayn can’t give, ignoring everything else that isn’t convenient.

“Yeah,” agrees Harry, feeling Zayn’s jaw relax under his fingers, “I do. Just like you need to show me how much you’ve missed me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but Harry sees a smile in them that Zayn wouldn’t be able to deny if he chose to point it out.

“Get this off,” he mumbles, pushing Harry’s hoodie up and exposing his abdomen to the flat. Harry complies readily, flinging his jumper off of himself and not even boring to fix his hair afterward, just pulling Zayn in and kissing him, walking backwards until the backs of his knees are hitting the sofa cushions and he falls down, Zayn landing on top of him, thighs bracketing his waist.

“What do you want?” Harry pants into Zayn’s neck, both of them shirtless and Zayn’s jeans unzipped, colourful briefs peeking out.

Zayn hums into another kiss, licking into Harry’s mouth and leaving his arms feeling like soggy noodles.

“Think you should blow me, yeah?” He mutters after he pulls back a bit, lashes fluttering when Harry scratches his blunt nails down his side.

“Perfect,” Harry pipes up, shifting to move Zayn under him. He tugs at his jeans once they’re comfortable, looking up to see Zayn looking down at him, his slim but defined chest moving up and down with every breath, his skin golden from the summer they’ve been enjoying. “This is my favourite.”

“I know,” Zayn says, exasperated, and he huffs when Harry pulls a little too hard on his jeans and then they’re off, Zayn’s red briefs looking obscene, a wet spot clinging to the head of his cock.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry breathes, feeling some kind of holy as he squeezes, watching Zayn’s hips jerk up. He wastes no time in stripping Zayn of his underwear, and then he’s got a hand around him, sliding up and down and watching Zayn’s face; the way he bites on his lips, shifting his hips up into Harry’s grip impatiently.

“Hold onto your sofas, ladies and gents.” Harry announces, leaning in.

He hears Zayn give a muffled “What the fuck?” before he licks the underside, enjoying the jerk of Zayn’s hips, the hand he pushes into Harry’s shorter hair.

He’s paying lavish attention to the tip but after a minute he decides to just get on with it, hollowing his cheeks as he moves down in time with his hand, feeling the weight of Zayn in his mouth and closing his eyes, remembering how he likes it – slow and sloppy and with the tiniest hint of teeth.

“ _God,_ ” Zayn groans, and Harry tries not to feel too smug. It’s been a long time since he did this, and the last person wasn’t nearly as thankful. Maybe because Harry’s only an expert at giving head when it’s Zayn – the one person Harry’s cared enough to personalise his technique for.

It’s wet and it’s slow and he’s sliding up and down the best he can, unable to go too far for lack of practise. He’s pushing his own hips into the cushions, feeling the burn in his thighs and moaning around Zayn’s cock. He feels Zayn’s hand clench rhythmically in his hair, and Harry pushes Zayn’s hips down into the sofa in time with his own, letting his teeth graze slightly on the up slide, and then Zayn’s coming, moaning, his come landing on Harry’s tongue and he just swallows, his own hips stuttering in release.

He pulls off, panting, and rests his forehead on Zayn’s right hipbone, mouth dragging on his upper thigh. Zayn’s hand releases Harry’s hair, but he starts running his fingers through it gently.

Harry lifts his head to find Zayn looking at him, something foreign on his face.

“What is it?” Harry asks with lips a little numb, because that’s his job now.

“I love you.” Zayn says, and he seems surprised at the words from his own mouth.

“Well, I _am_ a good cocksucker.” Harry remarks, grinning.

“You are such a twat.” Zayn scowls, pulling his hand from Harry’s hair and trying to sit up.

“No,” Harry whines, and he drapes himself over Zayn, “I love you, too.”

“This is uncomfortable,” Zayn tells him. His hair is mussed, the green tips all over the place. He looks beautiful. “Let’s go to bed.”

“That is a terrific idea,” Harry announces, pushing himself up to kiss Zayn slow and soft, a contrast to his bouncy words, “Your bed is the best.”

“You’ve never slept there,” Zayn says, raising a questioning eyebrow as they both stand, Harry passing him his clothes but taking a moment to let his eyes trace over the lines of Zayn’s lean but muscular back.

“It’ll have you in it,” Harry tells him, pulling Zayn in to kiss him again – this _might_ be a problem, later. “That makes it the best.”

“ _Fuckin' hell,_ ” Zayn rolls his eyes, “You don’t need to lay it on so thick.”

Harry just smiles, kisses him again.

“You know,” he says much later, Zayn’s head on his chest as they both stare up at the ceiling. He’s playing with Zayn’s now clean fingers, feeling wrung out from having them inside him earlier, merciless and sorely missed. “I listened to it.” Zayn shifts to look at him, a questioning look on his face. “Your album, I mean.”

Zayn’s face closes off a bit, and Harry drops his fingers to caress his cheek from above, feeling the muscles relax gradually.

“It was good,” Harry tells him quietly after a minute, “It was really good.”

Zayn’s eyes flick up to Harry’s, and Harry sees when he gets it – when he knows that Harry really does understand.

“Thanks, Haz,” Zayn replies, and Harry pushes Zayn’s wayward locks off his face, letting his fingers massage Zayn’s scalp subconsciously.

It’s another hour later by the time Zayn starts to fidget. He slides from under Harry’s arm and leans over the side of the bed, procuring his dirty briefs and putting them back on without a worry. Harry frowns, holding back a pout. Zayn sits up, swinging his legs onto the floor, standing and then bending down to pick up his jeans.

Something comes to mind, and Harry figures – why not?

“ _Watching you get dressed, messes with my head,_ ” he croons, and he sees the slightest twitch to Zayn’s mouth.

“Is that–” Harry gasps as he sits up onto his elbows, grinning, “Is that a smile I see?”

Zayn rolls his eyes as he pulls on his jeans, but the quirk grows and then he’s fighting back exactly that – a smile.

“I can’t believe it,” says Harry, and he feels his dimples dig right in and make a permanent home, “Alert the press.”

“Shove it.” Zayn grumbles, but his mouth twists anyway, his efforts to maintain a straight face failing. “You’re such a wanker.”

Harry waggles his eyebrows.

“A wanker you’re in love with, though,” he reminds him, feeling his chest go warm and his arms sprout up goosebumps.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, pulling a t-shirt over his head. His smile goes from reluctant to soft in a second, “You can shut up about it, though.”

“ _You should probably stay,_ ” Harry starts up again, cheeks hurting, “ _probably stay a couple more days._ ” Zayn rushes over, tattooed hands coming in to cover Harry’s mouth. Harry starts laughing, curling up to protect himself and trying to move away, “ _Come on, let me change your ticket home!_ ”

He’s breathless with laughter by the time Zayn pins his wrists down into the pillows, eyes glittering in mirth.

He throws his head back dramatically. “ _Don’t go–!_ ” He’s loud, there in the bedroom; but Zayn pushes his wrists in even harder as he leans in to kiss him, Harry struggling to participate given the grin widening his lips.

“Shut up,” Zayn tells him as he pulls away, looking fondly exasperated, “yeah?”

“Aren’t we way past that?” Harry asks, no melody in sight, “Playing hard to get? We did that when we were younger.”

Zayn groans, pulling away and letting go of Harry altogether.

“Oh, come on!” Harry exclaims, sitting up once more, “That one was brilliant!”

“Sure,” Zayn agrees, though it feels more like a placation, “are you hungry or not?”

Harry follows with interest, only bothering to put on his black briefs before entering the kitchen. The alien feeling he gets as he walks in reminds him of someone.

“Think we can tell your roommate she can come back now, probably,” Harry comments, sitting down at the island as Zayn opens the fridge, pulling out ingredients for something seemingly extravagant. Harry looks around until he glimpses a clock, and sees that it’s nearing six. “Actually, she probably deserves flowers, or something.” He frowns, thoughts starting up again like the prospect of food turned a key in an engine. “In fact, Niall needs some, too. And Louis. And my mum.”

Zayn snorts, abandoning his ingredients to come around the island, hand on Harry’s neck to bring him into a kiss. It’s a surprise – Harry’s not used to a Zayn that kisses him for fun, just because he wants to. Every other kiss felt like it had a reason.

“Thoughtful,” Zayn tells him, pushing his right hand through the shortest hair on the side of Harry’s head, just above his ear.

“I thought you said I was self-absorbed?” Harry asks, grinning at Zayn. He’s obviously trying not to smile, hand still running through Harry’s hair.

“You’re getting better.” He admits, and Harry grins wider, feels his dimples dig into his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning forward to kiss Zayn without a reason, thinking about his words and the way Zayn moves his hand down to brush the pad of his thumb across Harry’s cheek as he talks, fond and loving, “You, too.”

 

***

 

**August, 2010**

 

It’s not like Harry eyes up the whole band and assesses which one he’d most like to snog, but it’s sort of what he does.

The obvious choice is Louis, of course. He’s funny, he’s cute, and he and Harry get on so well it’s like they’ve known each other all their lives. Louis would be fun to kiss, Harry thinks. It’d be push and pull and laughing between teeth clacks and messy handies between mates and Harry imagines he could probably fall in love with Louis if he felt like it. But Louis has a girlfriend, and Harry’s never been a homewrecker by any stretch of the imagination. But it’d be the obvious choice to kiss Louis when he and Hannah break up, besides, even if he doesn’t say anything until the show finishes.

Harry doesn’t like to be obvious, however – even if Liam is giving the two of them weird looks every time they’re all over each other. It’s matesy, though, and Harry reminds himself that at this point in his life, as much as he likes Liam and thinks he’s really very talented – it’s unlikely Liam knows what’s matesy and what’s not. He looks like he hasn’t even been kissed before. And then that’s a whole train of thought that Harry goes down, wondering whether if he planted one on the Midlands boy he’d be shoved off, or if Liam would freeze, lips still, as Harry brushed them gently, tentative, hoping to draw him out of his shell.

It almost makes Harry laugh, though, because that thought goes straight out the window (hah!) when Liam hunches his shoulders every time Louis jostles him, like touch from anyone, let alone a boy, is dangerous. Harry frowns at his shy friend often, and Louis admits between the two of them late one night that he overheard Liam tell Zayn he was bullied. So Louis has made it his mission to help him. Harry doesn’t really want to get between all that, even if he makes a point of hugging Liam more often and sharing his food with him.

Niall is someone Harry can barely keep up with – he’s who Harry kind of wishes he could be, to be honest. Someone who doesn’t care much about what others think of him – someone who _truthfully_ doesn’t care. People tell Harry he comes off that way, but all he _does_ is think about how he’s perceived. Was that too nice? Was that too mean? Did they pick up on his innuendo? Does he talk about baking too much? It’s all he thinks about, and the thought of kissing someone like Niall makes him sweat because all Niall would do is laugh. And whilst that would be nice, to laugh about it – it’s not exactly what Harry was thinking about when he decided to consider who’d be the best to snog.

Then finally there’s Zayn. Harry’s not stupid, or slow – even if he talks like it. Zayn is, undoubtedly, the most fit. He is so pretty, and Harry sometimes thinks he doesn’t really know it – but then Harry will catch him eyeing himself in the mirror, or styling his hair attentively; that humanises him, somewhat. Zayn is by far the most intimidating to imagine snogging, but also Harry can’t really stop thinking about it once he starts. He’d be a little aggressive, Harry thinks – maybe he’s fooled around with blokes before, Harry’s got no clue. Zayn’s the hardest person to read, and Harry finds the best way to figure anything out with him is to keep talking until he tells you to stop. Harry stares and stares and Zayn will twitch or a lip will quirk or a brow will furrow the tiniest amount and he’ll know, then, what Zayn’s thinking. Despite his avid study, Harry brushes only the surface of those thoughts. He never truly grasps them.

Then again, Harry kind of thinks that’s Zayn’s allure – you’re never going to understand him, not unless he allows it. And Zayn doesn’t seem to allow anyone, even Liam – who also loves comics, who is also a little reserved, who also likes hip hop and rap and all of that – to understand him; to even attempt to, at this rate.

It’s like Zayn doesn’t know Harry at all, Harry thinks as he watches Zayn from the doorway, sitting by the bonfire on the second to last night in Robin’s bungalow. And he doesn’t, Harry muses – not in the way Harry likes most people to know him – because Zayn’s sort of kept his distance a bit, as if Harry would respect it.

Well, Harry’s going to be in a band with this beautiful boy, and even if they can’t kiss they’re going to bloody well know each other. Zayn can’t get away that easily – Harry even managed to cuddle Liam, so Zayn’s the last one left.

“What’re you up to?” Harry asks him, plopping himself down next to Zayn, the outside of their thighs pushed against each other. Zayn shifts and a small gap forms, enough for a few hairs to exist between them.

“Nothin’,” Zayn mumbles, keeping his eyes on the comic in his hands, flitting them about the page as if he’s only looking at the pictures because he’s too lazy to read. Harry sees it, though – sees the way his eyes trace the lines, catch on certain colours. Harry smiles.

“You an artist, then?” he prods, shifting closer. It’s close enough for his cheekbone to brush Zayn’s clothed shoulder, his own eyes gazing down at the lines of _Spiderman._

“What?” Zayn asks, a little more coherent now. Harry turns his head, chin resting on Zayn’s arm. He feels his lashes stick a little, sees the way Zayn’s gaze follows them before they truly lock eyes.

“You were looking at the drawings,” Harry explains, bringing a hand up to tap on one of the more colourful panels, “Saw your eyes following the ink.”

“So?” He sounds short, stiff.

“So,” Harry drawls, pushing the smallest bit closer. Zayn doesn’t shift away this time and so he smiles, feeling the dimples dig into his cheeks, “You’re an artist.”

“I like to draw.” Zayn divulges, but there’s nothing behind it – no passion, no guilt, not even the kind of tired tone Harry might expect in reaction to his obnoxious pestering. Harry digs his chin a little deeper into Zayn’s left arm, snaking his own around Zayn’s waist to get a tad more comfortable. There’s a flutter of something across Zayn’s face, but it’s entirely too quick for Harry to register exactly what it is.

“I like to draw, too,” Harry says softly, and it’s not a lie – he’s just not very good, “I also like to bake.”

“You’ve said.” Zayn sounds a little uncertain now, but more like he’s a bit confused as to how he got here than he’s doubting Harry’s culinary skills.

Harry hums, his gaze roving over Zayn’s features, taking in every perfect angle, every slightly awkward facial hair and feeling himself grow warmer, his eyes a little more glittery – they do that, Gemma says, when he’s thinking of someone he likes. Well, Zayn’s likeable. And so pretty, has Harry said? Pretty things have always been his weakness. It’s why he likes flowers so much.

“You’re sort of close, mate,” says Zayn, as if Harry doesn’t know.

“Am I?” Harry asks, grin on his face. He knows people like it when he smiles, and Zayn’s feeling a little less rigid with every one. “I like being close to you.” Harry snaps his mouth shut – he hadn’t exactly intended to say that, but it’s out there and so he opens his mouth to laugh it off, but then Zayn looks away; there’s the slightest, most faint hint of a blush in his brown cheeks. And Harry, he thinks – well, he thinks that’s a _maybe,_ if anything.

Maybe, he can work with.

“You’re strange,” Zayn observes, and it twinges a bit, that does. Harry tries not to let it show on his face.

“That a bad thing, Zayn? Being strange.” Harry adds the last bit on when Zayn’s eyebrows raise in question. “Besides, what’s strange, anyway? Strange is just someone else’s normal, isn’t it?”

“What’re you fuckers doing?” Niall calls out, and Harry whips his head around to see the bottle blonde in the doorway, cap on backwards and hands out by his sides in askance. “We’re all waiting for ya. Haz, you said you’d get Zayn for the film. Instead I arrive to see you’ve held on and not let go. Give Malik a break.”

“Hey,” Harry prolongs, frowning, “Zayn enjoys my company, thanks very much. Sod your film, Horan!”

Niall flips him the bird, making a noise of disgust before he turns away and leaves the room. Harry knows they’ll wait for them, but he’s comfortable here – he’d stay crushed up against Zayn forever, if he could. _And ain’t that a thought,_ Harry thinks to himself, feeling pricks of nervous sweat form at the back of his neck.

He shifts up and away before he can think too much on it, ignoring the now worrisome stutter in his chest. “Better get to it, then,” he says, turning back to offer up a hand.

Zayn’s staring at him, but there’s nothing there on his face that Harry can read. He kind of wants to dive right in, though, and discover every nook and cranny of him.

 _Oh,_ Harry thinks as Zayn takes his hand, pulling himself up and out of the deck chair.

“I hope it’s not one of your romantic comedies,” Zayn says, and he’s not looking at Harry anymore; instead he’s pulling him along behind him, hand in hand, “They’re fucking awful, I don’t care what you say.”

“How _dare_ you, Malik?” Harry gasps in faux outrage, “After everything I’ve done–!”

“Will you two stop squabbling?” Louis snaps as they enter the living room, and his eyes narrow at their joined hands. “Christopher Nolan waits for no man.”

Harry sighs, squeezing Zayn’s fingers as he pulls him down next to him, squeezed into the armchair together like there’s not a whole other one across from them. “What’s this, then, Lou?”

“ _Memento,_ ” Liam pipes up, shoving some popcorn in his mouth, “Louis said it was good.”

“It’s magnificent, now shut your gobs because I won’t condone talking.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but his smile betrays him as the film starts. Zayn wiggles a little before going completely lax. He leans away a touch when Niall moves in to utter something, and the start of the film is quiet enough that Harry just catches the words.

“Harry get to you, too, then?” Niall whispers. Zayn pinches him, and he squawks. Louis scowls.

Harry may have spent the first ten minutes picking popcorn out of his curls, but Louis was right when he said _Memento_ was good.

He has to rewatch it a year later, though; because when he thinks back on it, the tingling of his hand is about all he can remember. Funny, that.

 

***

 

**July, 2017**

 

Things aren’t perfect. There are still moments when Zayn pulls away, when he’d rather leave his face blank than let Harry see what he’s really feeling. There are still moments when Harry forgets to poke at him, to say “What is it?”; and there are still moments when all Harry can do is think about how something is going to affect him.

The difference is that now they’re trying. They’re communicating.

“I’d really love it,” Harry needles one night, half of his things in Zayn’s New York flat, the other half somewhere across the world, “if you’d come.”

Zayn frowns, turning away. “I’ll see if I can manage it.”

“Bit much, isn’t it?” Gigi asks, offhand and casual, a few minutes later. Zayn’s not come back from the bathroom yet, and Harry knows to give him his space for now. “You’ve only been at it for a month.”

“It’s been years.” Harry tells her, and Gigi rolls her eyes.

“Alright, Romeo, calm the fuck down.” She says, taking another bite of her stir fry. She’d been reluctantly impressed with Harry’s cooking efforts. “You _know_ Zayn, don’t act dumb.”

He knows. And he knows that right now he’s just thinking about how brilliant it’d be to have Zayn next to him, the crowd there for a war film – not for a boy band. He’s not sure he can face this one alone, and he doesn’t really want to, regardless. They’ve already been spotted around New York together, and he’d gotten a lot of texts from Liam that were just endless question marks.

This feels right, though. Like the two of them are establishing themselves together outside of the band, like everyone will finally see – there’s no feud, there’s no bad blood. They’re just in love.

He doesn’t think about it too much, too busy doing promo in the lead up. He leaves Zayn, gets some hickeys on his chest – much to Lou’s horror – and travels around with Fionn and Jack and Barry and tries not to blurt out Zayn’s name every two seconds.

When the premiere comes around, Lambert’s got him more worried about his outfit than whether or not Zayn’s coming, and it’s only when he gets the text the day before – _Where am I supposed to be_ – that he realises what’s happening.

“Fuck.” he mutters, heart racing as he smiles, tapping back a response.

They don’t arrive together, but Harry’s only been on the carpet for five minutes when Zayn pulls up, not bothering with the initial photos and just walking calmly over to Harry, hands in his pockets. He’s donned a three-piece dark grey suit with a white collar and a textured tie. His hair flops to one side, artful and effortless. Harry feels a bit inept, to be honest.

“Hey,” Zayn greets him. Harry reaches out, touches him.

“Managed something, did you?” Harry asks, hand burning where it cradles Zayn’s skinny elbow.

“I know some people.” Zayn tells him, and there’s the tiniest quirk to his lips that Harry wants to just bite into, sod the cameras and the fans and the co-stars who think he’s somewhat normal. Have any of them ever kissed Zayn Malik? No. Their opinions are sort of irrelevant, then.

“Of course, you do.” Harry replies lightly, fighting down a full-blown grin on the red carpet. “Might these people be in a war film? Might they be making their acting debut?”

“No.” Zayn says simply, deadpan, and Harry can’t help but throw back his head and laugh, hearing the clicks of the cameras even with his eyes squeezed shut in mirth.

He leans in once he’s recovered, mouth to Zayn’s ear, and says the words.

“I love you.”

He pulls back and Zayn smiles. The flashes of the cameras go insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a trip! My very first Zarry. Please let me know what you thought in the comments. I really hope I did these two justice, as well as their relationship. It can be hard to fix the multiple fuck ups of real life people, haha.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [here](http://undercutzayn.tumblr.com). 
> 
> [This is the official fic post.](http://undercutzayn.tumblr.com/post/167398968170) :)


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